


Metrocide

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: Cybertron [5]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Cybertron
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gigalonia is a rough-and-tumble world of purple silt, endlessly mined by robotic beings so huge, they make the Transformers look small. Nightbeat came in search of a Planet Key but instead found something he much prefers: a mystery! This may, however, be one puzzle the galaxy's greatest detective and his neurotic partner, Checkpoint, cannot solve thanks to a pair of wild cards: the femme fatale called Arcee and the self-proclaimed "ex-Decepticon" known as Thundercracker...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Outside, the world was ending.

Not that it mattered much to the few lonely Sparks who had gathered on sub-level six of Iacon’s lower east quadrant. Better known as Macaddam’s Old Oil House, the spacious chamber had served the finest-grade black market oil since before the war. Its libations were just the thing to help bypass those troubling logic circuits for a few glorious cycles. The bar had only two rules: no fighting, and leave all allegiances at the door.

Nightbeat took great comfort from the second rule.

His hands had shaken when he’d lifted the first pitcher of oil. The thick black liquid managed to settle him enough that the second pitcher was cradled in steady servos. By the time he’d started pouring from his eighth pitcher, any trace of control was gone. The table beneath his elbows was spattered with oily drops, while his once-pristine black and white armour was smeared and streaked with Cybertron’s best lubricant.

At times like this, Nightbeat was very glad that, when in robot mode, his vehicular tyres sat atop his shoulders. It meant that, when his cranium wobbled from side-to-side, it had something soft to land against.

He cast a fuzzy optic around the bar. Few mechs had shown up tonight – no real surprise given recent events. The devil himself had popped up and taken a bite out of the planet. That sort of thing kept most folks at home. Then the devil had died and left behind a black hole that was _ever so slowly_ chewing up reality. It was enough to drive the foolish to drink, and to encourage the sensible to stay in their garages.

Nightbeat was sure he used to be sensible. Then again, he used to be sure about a lot more things.

All the big-brained scientists were focused on how impossible this was; how the singularity defied the laws of physics. Astroscope, the Mini-Con scientist, kept saying the black hole should have torn Cybertron apart within cycles. Instead, it ripped off an overloop here, a building there, as if it were drawing out the agony. Astroscope had said it wasn’t possible. Nightbeat, meanwhile, was more than willing to accept it. As a detective, he’d seen far stranger phenomena in his time on-line, and knew a few home truths one could not find in a scientific datatrack.

"Whenever you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth", he murmured.

“You say something?” The bartender asked. He was a sturdy mech, standing tall in gleaming blue armour and a solid chassis. Black plates adorned the upper lip of his face plate and, for the first time, Nightbeat noticed how much they resembled an Earthman’s moustache. It struck him as vaguely funny, and he was moved to chuckle softly.

The sound came out as a loud, booming guffaw that echoed around the near-empty tavern. Embarrassed, Nightbeat suddenly realised just how much he’d had to drink. The bartender moved to take pitcher number nine away but the detective waved him back. “Keep ‘em coming,” he said, wincing at the slurring of his words. “I think that, after all these vorns, I’ve earned a good drunk.”

The bartender frowned, unconvinced. “You know none of that means anything here,” he rumbled. “No, I’m pretty sure you’ve had enough.”

“The mech said leave it, so leave it,” someone said. The voice, obviously feminine, rang clear like a bell. It came from behind them. “We may have to leave our allegiances at the door, but that doesn’t mean we delete all our respect, too.”

Though he didn’t need to, Nightbeat turned to look at his supporter. As he’d already deduced, it was Arcee – the Autobot valkyrie whose battle prowess far surpassed many of her “male” counterparts. A deadly lady indeed.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine,” he grumbled.

Lady – it was a strange concept for a mechanical race, Nightbeat reasoned drunkenly. He’d never have even considered Arcee “a lady” if not for his stint on Earth. None of the Autobots would have. Before Earth, she’d just been a fembot, a soldier with a sleeker, different chassis design to the rest. Nowadays the ‘bots tended to look at Arcee differently… the way some humans looked at each other. Nightbeat shook his head. Lately, it seemed as if all the old definitions could be thrown out.

Arcee smiled ruefully, the expression lighting up her dazzling white faceplate. “We spent half a vorn on Earth and you still found time to absorb the local pop culture,” she said.

Every optic in the bar followed her as she glided over to a stool and sat down. She crossed her long, white legs and propped an elbow on the bar, signalling with her hand for a pitcher of her own. This time the bartender didn’t argue – he happily provided the lubricant and tried not to stare as she took a long, slow draft through her ruby red lips.

"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles,” Nightbeat quipped.

Arcee raised an eyebrow-plate. “Really? The way I remember, it had more to do with you and that Mini-Con, Prowl, reading every pulp novel you could lay your hands on.” She took another swig, her prowess obviously impressing the bartender. “You’re a wreck,” she said simply.

Nightbeat considered that. True, he’d looked better, and should have checked into a CR chamber several cycles ago. His black-and-white armour was stained, quite apart from the oil, with the grime of an alien battlefield. Every aching joint and servo whined as it moved. His tyres were bald, his vehicle mode cockpit – his shins in robot mode – were cracked and spider-webbed. One of the exhaust pipes on the sides of his head had been snapped off, giving him a lop-sided appearance.

He’d used to joke those exhaust pipes were among his best assets, venting all the waste from his thoughts and giving him heightened clarity. He hadn’t much felt like joking lately.

“I came to pass on a message from Prime," Arcee smiled. "He said ‘that monstrosity’ needs to be moved. It’s like Earth all over again – you can’t park here!”

Nightbeat grunted, focusing on his oil cup again.

“I thought you should know we’ve heard from some of the others,” she said quietly, leaning in close. Rules or no, the conscientious warrior was not about to let a drunken Decepticon overhear sensitive Autobot information.

“Hand me over my violin and let us try to forget, for half an hour, the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellowmen,” Nightbeat replied with a smirk.

Arcee ignored him. “Grimlock’s team is on its way back – so is Rodimus’ group. If it makes you feel any better, there were Decepticons on the worlds they visited, too.”

Nightbeat grimaced, his false joviality evaporating. “It’s the Decepticons on _this_ world that are causing me grief,” he spat. “Used to be a purple badge meant something… an enemy, the opposition, a big fat target. Now things are so muddled and whacked-out you can’t tell whose side any of them are on.”

He paused and thought, then added, “Though I have to admit it’s interesting, all of us finding Decepticons on other worlds. These were supposed to be lost colonies, right?”

“Yup,” Arcee said, grateful to have turned his attention to anything besides drinking.

“Lost colonies that have had no contact, at all, with Cybertron since the moment their ships lifted off some time in the deep, dark, distant past?”

“Mm-hmm.” She drained her cup and poured another round for them both.

“And we know Decepticons, as a group, didn’t exist until Megatron went rogue. No name, no symbol, no agenda… zip. Bupkis. So how the frell are there ‘cons on all these distant, no-contact, lost colony we-dunno-where-Cybertron-is worlds?”

“Beats me,” Arcee offered simply. “Bad luck?”

“No such thing,” Nightbeat snapped. “Luck, I mean. Good or bad. There’s cause and effect, action and reaction, motivation and execution. Not luck.”

She gave him a hard stare. “If that’s true, then why are you down here hiding from the end of the world, drowning your sorrows and claiming nothing makes sense?” she demanded. “Why not apply some of those hard-and-fast rules to this situation, drain your sump and get back out there with the rest of us?”

He opened his mouth to answer, thought better of it and dropped his head. He fixed his gaze squarely on his forearms, reading and re-reading the airbrushed “tattoos” he’d gotten on a mission to Tokyo… back when the war still made sense. Nightbeat realised he had no idea what the _kanji_ characters meant. He’d picked the inscrutable symbols because they’d called to him in a strange way and, of course, he never ignored those feelings.

Arcee sighed. “You really get under my armour sometimes, you know?” she said, her frustration as keen as one of her Energon knives.

“Sorry,” he said with more sincerity than he felt. “But I’m kind of stuck in a rut right now, and I’m happy here. Maybe later I’ll be ready to play soldier again.”

The slap caught him totally off-guard, knocked him from his stool and sent him sprawling to the floor. Arcee loomed over him, her face thunderous and eyes flashing darkly. The bartender was on her in an instant – but for only an instant, as Arcee shifted her weight and tossed the burly mechanoid over her shoulder. Alone amongst her fellows, Arcee had substantial knowledge of ancient _crystalocution_ and _tekkaido_ techniques. Though far from a master of those arts, her skills were more than enough to give her the edge over larger opponents.

The bartender dug himself out of the front grille of the jukebox and began lumbering toward his errant customer. Arcee pivoted to face him, her malicious grin and outstretched fingers welcoming his attack. Nightbeat lifted himself onto his own unsteady feet and lurched in between them, a living barrier to hostilities.

“It’s all good,” he told the bartender, watching him visibly relax. “Wasn’t a fight, because I didn’t swing back. No breach of the rules, so we’ll just sit back down and keep drinking.”

The black upper lip plates wrinkled, but the bartender seemed willing to accept the compromise. That, or he was especially unwilling to face off with Arcee a second time. Nightbeat fancied he could feel heat radiating from her steel skin, a warrior’s inner fire stoked and ready to erupt from every vent in her chassis.

He reached down, collected his stool and perched on it, taking up his cup once more. The bartender moved off to clear some tables… some distant, rear tables… and Arcee remained standing. Nightbeat could feel her optics boring twin holes in his shoulder assembly.

“Play soldier,” she said contemptuously, then sat down next to him once more. “You’re lucky you only got slapped, Nightbeat.”

He shrugged. “So you say.”

She poked at her cup with a finger. “So this is what becomes of the mighty Autobot SWAT Team,” she sneered. “Formed to discover, raid and destroy secret Decepticon strongholds. Empowered with an upgraded Spark of Combination and new powers and weapons, which they use instead to discover, sit in and drain oil bars the world over.”

“Not ‘team’,” Nightbeat corrected. “There needs to be at least two ‘bots for it to be a team.”

Arcee’s expression softened. “Is that what this is really all about?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

“Nightbeat,” she whispered, again moving closer to him. This time it wasn’t to share secrets or publicly discuss sensitive matters. This time it was the actions of a friend, an attempt to help another struggle through the most personal of mourning.

He raised the cup to his lips and took another long, deep drink. If the oil could stop the shakes, then maybe it could stop the memories, too. Memories of Checkpoint… and Thundercracker… and the damned planet Gigalonia.


	2. Chapter 2

Even the _rain_ was purple, Nightbeat noted with a smirk.

He paced the crime scene again, listening to his wide, wheeled feet squelching in the purple mud. He’d hate to have to drive in the stuff, though that wasn’t an issue right now. Nor was being armed – he’d left his plasma rifle with Checkpoint, back up on the ridge. That solved two of his problems in one fell swoop – he worked better alone, and he worked better unarmed.

And he _certainly_ worked better without Checkpoint hovering over his shoulder.

His SWAT team partner had his uses, of course. Many a time during investigations, Nightbeat had made use of Checkpoint’s singular skills. The other Autobot could pinpoint a 2cm object from 1200 feet, hear a microchip drop from 2km away and detect trace odours as weak as two parts per million. His primary function may have been security, but Checkpoint made a hell of a mobile forensics lab.

Provided he switched his synthesiser off, Checkpoint was the best partner Nightbeat could ask for. When he unhinged his jaw, though, he was a nightmare. The same enhanced perception and heightened olfactory sensors that made him useful also made him acutely paranoid – sometimes, the black and white truck saw things that weren’t even there. His freaky, nervous behaviour seemed to worsen with the level of violence involved in their case – which was exactly why he’d been left on the ridge this time.

Nightbeat scratched one of his head-mounted exhaust pipes thoughtfully – a human trait he’d picked up back on Earth. _If I can barely make sense of this one, then Checkpoint would blow a gasket_ , he mused.

The crime scene was the biggest he’d ever tackled. It stretched 100km north and south, and at least 50km east-to-west. Purple mud – same colour as the rain, same colour as the sky, same colour as everything on Gigalonia – was caked onto every surface. Nightbeat wanted to start sweeping it away with his steel hands, but stopped himself. He knew speed was the first enemy of the crime scene examiner. No telling how much valuable trace evidence could be lost with a casual wave of a servo or flick of a finger.

He started “walking the grid”. It was another Earth term but, unlike most of his humanistic affectations, this one had a real purpose. He would walk the length of the crime scene then turn, parallel and one body-width from his original path, and walk again. Like a snake, he’d cover the entire scene looking up, down, left and right, observing everything that made up the environment. Then, when he’d done that, he’d repeat the process moving east-to-west. Theory was, nothing would escape his keen observation that way.

A human detective – or criminalist, as Nightbeat preferred – would have to focus his entire attention on the task at hand. Being a Transformer, Nightbeat could instead segment off his processor and multi-task. Half of him looked for clues while the other ran through all the available evidence and tried to “connect the dots”. Optimus Prime and the others had, once or twice, accused him of using “irregular logic”. In truth, Nightbeat’s methods were anything but irregular. They just made sense to him and him alone.

Walking the grid was one thing, but walking over the victim’s corpse was another. Nightbeat stopped when he reached the dead Transformer’s left foot and turned to walk around it. It took some time… several minutes, in fact. Not only was this the biggest crime scene Nightbeat had worked, it was also the biggest victim he’d ever encountered.

The murdered party would have stood as tall as the Tower of Pion, back on Cybertron. He was covered in dense, white and blue armour that was trimmed with red and gold. The antenna on either side of his head could be used to snooker small meteors. Granted, he was no Unicron, but this was one big body.

Once upon a time, when he was alive, the victim was known as Metroplex.

\-----

“He’s still down there,” Checkpoint said, his voice cracking anxiously. “I haven’t seen anything hostile yet, but I shan’t be taking an optic off of him, either. I have two guns, after all,” he added, waving his and Nightbeat’s weapons in the air, “and I’m not afraid to use them!”

“Nah,” sneered a voice behind him. “You’re just afraid to do much of anything else.”

Arcee spun on her heel. “I don’t recall anyone asking for your opinion, Decepticon,” she spat.

The target of her ire was a large blue, red and black robot. Everything about his form screamed death – from his sharp, expansive wings the malicious grin etched into his blood-red face plate. Right now he was leaning back on a purple boulder, idly crushing lavender rocks between his lean, steely black fingers.

“Your boss seems to have a different opinion,” Thundercracker replied, not unreasonably. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly volunteering to chaperone you feebs on a treasure hunt. But old mech Prime seemed to think I had something to offer, so I’d best offer what I have until I end up offering that particular something.”

Arcee glared at him. Thundercracker smiled back charmingly.

Fuming, the valkyrie turned back to Checkpoint. She steeled her nerve, trying to ignore the gloating Decepticon. Not for the first time, she questioned her commander’s wisdom.

Optimus Prime may have had the Matrix of Leadership, he may well have been the greatest Autobot of all time, and he was unquestionably the hero of the Unicron Battles. None of that, however, meant he was right all the time. Arcee had little doubt Prime was wrong – well and truly, utterly wrong – to let Thundercracker join their forces.

Of course, the grinning idiot hadn’t really _joined_ , had he? His armour still bore no less than four Decepticon symbols, and he’d steadfastly refused to even consider lining up for an Autobrand. _We may be fighting for the same goal_ , Thundercracker had drawled, months ago, _but that don’t mean we’re on the same side, Prime_.

Thundercracker. What a blasted, frustrating enigma. He’d been one of the original Decepticons – even joined in the slaughter at Nova Cronum – and a frightening enemy. Arcee remembered the first time she saw him, soaring over an oil-soaked battlefield. His engines were not only powerful enough to create metal-splitting sonic booms, they were also subtle enough to vibrate _just so_ , the sound unnerving anyone in audio-range. He was a killer, a twisted warrior who seemed to grow stronger the angrier he became, and she’d spent vorns wanting to rip his fuel pump out with her teeth.

Then he’d vanished.

No one was ever really sure what had happened to Thundercracker, and the Decepticons weren’t exactly offering details. All Arcee knew was the midnight-blue spectre of the battlefield had… evaporated. Time passed, and she wasted no more thought on Thundercracker. The war went on, the siege of Iacon had intensified, the battle shifted to Earth.

Which is when Thundercracker and his annoying Mini-Con cheerleader, Zapmaster, arrived on the doorstep of Earthbase and demanded to see Optimus.

They’d come unarmed, the gesture seemingly good enough for the Autobot leader to agree to a closed-door meeting. For more than an hour the Decepticon spoke with Prime, Ultra Magnus and Grimlock. The rest of the Autobots, meanwhile, had crowded around in curiosity and confusion. When they emerged, Prime announced the duo would now be part of the Autobot team.

That had prompted the Decepticon’s infamous reply. “We may be fighting for the same goal, but that don’t mean we’re on the same side, Prime. I’m an ex-Decepticon, not an Autobot, and as soon as Megatron is dead, so too is this little alliance.” Then he’d stalked away, claimed a bunk for himself and promptly cycled offline.

He’d been as good as his word since – valiantly battling his former comrades every time he’d laid optics on them. He’d stood by Prime’s side against Megatron himself, and even taken a few blows to allow Kicker, their human ally, to get out of range. At the same time, he’d go out of his way to scare the Mini-Cons, threaten “weaker” Autobots and rile Prime’s inner circle. After saving Arcee from death during the Unicron Battles, he claimed to have done so only “to preserve future slave labour”.

Thundercracker, she reasoned, was scum. Noble scum, but scum nonetheless.

Arcee heard the noise of an engine and looked down. Nightbeat had transformed into his vehicle mode – a form halfway between a police cruiser and a Formula One racing car – and was driving up the side of the crater. “Thank the Matrix,” Checkpoint sighted, visibly relaxing. Thundercracker, still sitting, mimicked him quietly but audibly.

“You can’t bully me, Thundercracker,” Checkpoint sniffed, his erudite tones hanging in the still air. “I won’t be intimidated by someone of your ilk.”

That made the Decepticon laugh. “You have been for the last nine million years, alarm-boy,” he chuckled, “what makes you think you’re any different today?”

Nightbeat cleared the lip of the crater and transformed in mid air, his arrival ending any further discussion. Despite the carnage below, he was grinning broadly – Arcee knew he only truly came alive when he had a mystery to solve.

“Dead,” he announced matter-of-factly. “Well and truly. Very little trace evidence I could spot – Checkpoint, I’ll need you down there for a second sweep – but we have a very obvious cause of death.”

He held up his forearm and, from his communicator, projected a holographic image. It was a close-up of Metroplex’s chest – a broad, white expanse bordered on either side by black-and-red Powerlinx ports. To the left of the image, three small, round holes could be seen.

Thundercracker stood up, shoved Checkpoint out of the way and studied the image. “Tight grouping,” he muttered. “Would have torn through vital systems – assuming this big scrap heap was built like we are. Professional job, very clean. Assassin stuff.”

Nightbeat frowned. “Thank you, Mr Psychopathic Killer,” he sneered, “but that was pretty obvious.”

The Decepticon shrugged. “I’m just doing what I do. Talk to the broad – she gets it.” He winked at Arcee and sauntered back to his purple rock. She bristled, and felt her face plate heat up.

“Instant suspect,” Nightbeat murmured, just loud enough for Arcee and Checkpoint to hear. “We’ll have to keep an eye on him… my first deduction would be that our killer is Deception-trained.” He held out his hand for his plasma rifle.

Checkpoint shivered as he returned the weapon to its owner. “And our so-called ally over there is responsible for training the original Deceptions. This could be the biggest, messiest and yet quickest case ever, Nightbeat.”

Pushing past her anger and disgust, Arcee shook her head. “It makes no sense,” she said. “Thundercracker doing it, I mean. What would he have to gain, betraying us after all this time?”

Nightbeat was silent, his head cocked to one side. For a moment, Arcee fancied he was sifting data, and she could see the discarded bytes flowing out of his exhaust pipes. “Not sure. I’ll keep thinking about it,” he said at last. “Right now, Checkpoint needs to get down there and play bloodhound. The rest of us better go speak to the next of kin.”

Checkpoint transformed into a six-wheeled ramming truck – complete with flashing lights and a spoiler labelled “SWAT” – and headed for Metroplex’s corpse. Nightbeat and Arcee walked slowly away from the crater, back over the perimeter they’d established. Over her shoulder, she noticed Thundercracker stand up and lope along behind.

The trio worked its way through a series of tall steel canyons. When he found a marking he recognised, Nightbeat reached up and rapped sharply on a metallic outcropping. The ground beneath Arcee’s feet jumped and rumbled as the steel canyons shifted and moved… like the legs they were. One set of giant legs bent, somewhere around the cloud level, allowing a huge torso to loom down toward them.

An enormous, dirty, pock-marked face filled Arcee’s view screen. It reminded her vaguely of Overcast – the late, lamented high-flier of the Wreckers. The giant had the same Y-shaped mouthplate, the same broad, screen-like optics. Above his “eyes” sat a flip-down, slotted visor – the type used to protect oneself from sudden, bright flashes. A communications array ran along the left-hand side of his head, to which was also attached a large spotlight. The Transformer’s mining pedigree was evident in his design.

“What have you found?” the giant asked in a low, booming voice.

Thundercracker whistled. “Better hope the killer’s not one of these boys, else we’re going to need bigger guns.”

\-----

Guilt.

The familiar sensation flooded every one of his neural pathways, provoking extreme reactions within his processor. There were times he thought that, in the shadows of the corners of his vision, he could see the wounded and the dying crying out his name. Pleading for an explanation. Wanting to know why he failed in his duty.

He was Omega Supreme, greatest of the Omega Sentinels and the Autobot’s last line of defence. It was a daunting role in which he had excelled for millennia, since casting his lot with the faction just before the siege of Iacon. Through his efforts, his leadership of hundreds of front-line troops, the city had resisted every Decepticon advance. Omega Supreme had held the line, his towering size and massive power enough to give even the deadliest foe pause. He was the biggest, the strongest and the bravest, and none could pass him. Unyielding resolve, he often declared, had no conqueror.

None save Unicron.

Omega had been one of the first to lay optics on the monster planet. While Optimus Prime and the others went in search of the Mini-Cons, he had stayed behind to defend the golden city. He was on duty when the dark god’s shadow spread over Cybertron, when its immeasurably long talons ripped into the planet’s very surface. For the first time in his long existence, Omega Supreme had found something too large for him to fight, and the notion of it paralysed him.

Unicron had fallen, but through no action on Omega’s part. He had failed the city miserably and could do little but watch his troops get slaughtered. After the dark god had been destroyed, Omega had resigned his commission and left the Autobot forces, unwilling… unable… to fight again. He had stayed in seclusion, right up until now.

“How does it feel?” asked a cheerful voice to his left.

Omega lifted his head and looked up at his own body. The mighty structure – part crane, part battleship – loomed over the tools and equipment in the repair bay. His body had suffered severely during the trip from Cybertron to Gigalonia. Sent across the galaxy to find the Planet Keys – items supposedly able to save the universe – the Autobots had been split into teams. A lack of space craft following the Unicron Battles meant transport was needed… and Omega’s combined vehicle mode was capable of Transwarp travel. Grudgingly, he’d allowed himself to be pressed back into service for one last mission.

Rogue meteor showers around the purple-hued planet had battered him, and a crash-landing hadn’t helped, either. Fortunately, all aboard – Nightbeat, Arcee, Checkpoint, even that miserable Thundercracker – had survived, but he’d be out of the main action for some time. Which was just the way he liked it – Omega had agreed to act as transport on the promise he would not have to fight. He intended to ensure the agreement was fulfilled.

“I find it amazing, I have to say,” the happy voice continued, “the way you can do that. I mean, I have some pretty impressive tricks, but decapitating myself to save power is beyond even my skills.”

The speaker was another giant Transformer, his brilliant gold armour shot through with streaks of silver. He was bulky and somewhat ungainly-looking, with arms made from vehicle treads and bulldozer blades for shoulders. Canopies, cockpits and tyres protruded from his torso and legs in odd places, while a steam-shovel rose from the centre of his back. Omega had no idea what such an odd-looking robot would even transform into.

His form, however, belied his true purpose. Landfill was all about building. Structures, robots, tunnels, delicate micro-systems… whatever was needed, he produced. He’d proudly told Omega that, if it was on Gigalonia and it was running, it was because of his gentle touch.

Normally, Omega would stand taller than his new friend, but he’d down-sized for repairs. Alone amongst the Autobots, Omega Supreme had the ability to download his entire personality into his detachable head module, which could transform into a tiny duplicate of his real body. It was a trick that had saved his life numerous times in the trenches around Iacon. Since Unicron, it had allowed him to hide himself away fairly successfully.

Still, he didn’t much like talking about it.

“How long until you’re done?” he asked, his powerful voice echoing through the repair bay. Even in his smaller form, he retained his usual speaking voice – something many of his team mates found disconcerting. “We’ll need to leave in a hurry, once we’ve found what we’re looking for.”

Landfill gave him a quizzical look. “The Planet Key, or whatever you called it?” he asked. “Like I told you, everyone on Gigalonia has one – you just concentrate, up it pops and it doubles your work output for the day. Can’t see as why one would be more useful than the other, just ‘cause it’s got some gold around the edges.”

“I hardly understand it myself,” Omega said, thinking of Vector Prime and his portents of universal doom. “When my commanding officer gives me an order, though, I follow it through. And he told us to find the Key and make haste back to Cybertron.”

“Ah, the home world,” Landfill sighed pleasantly. “Sure wish I could see it for myself. What with all the improvements you’ve no doubt made thanks to the Gigalonia Grounders.”

 _More guilt_ , Omega thought, though he said nothing.

The natives – every one of them a giant – had welcomed them with enormous open arms after the crash. They’d been feted by the massive Transformers, re-energised and repaired. Landfill, the smallest of their number, had been appointed their guide and “occupational health and safety liaison” – whatever that meant.

Landfill had been all too eager to conduct a grand tour of his home. It was an open-cut mine so large, so deep, it defied easy description. Transformers worked there without cease, never complaining, as they uncovered load after load of ore and minerals. If they tired, the giants would pause and concentrate until a purple disk appeared near their forms. The discs would plug into their bodies, much like a Mini-Con would to an Autobot, and they would resume work with a new fervour.

Though each bore the Autobot symbol, their hosts called themselves “Grounders”. Every one of them, to a mech, was a miner. Obsessively so – and every scoop brought them closer to the centre of the purple planet. Though reaching the core would no doubt doom them and Gigalonia, they seemed oblivious to the danger. Nightbeat had likened them to lemmings – a race of tiny Earth creatures driven to destroy themselves for no apparent reason.

It hadn’t taken long for the Autobots to learn why they had been so welcomed. The Grounders believed their toil was for the good of Cybertron, the “home world” to which they dedicated their existences. As Landfill explained, they handed the fruits of their labours over to the “Flyers”, whose task it was to ship the minerals across the galaxy.

Omega had not been surprised when he saw his first “Flyer”. It was an immense, trident-shaped floating platform. The centre "prong" ended with a shovel-like structure, while the left extension finished in a sharp, multi-faceted drill. The remaining “prong” was the most disconcerting… it ended in a gripper claw, much like Omega's own, but featured a knife-like probe in its centre. While the shape was alien his lack of surprise came from the decoration on its hull. In numerous places, the mammoth craft bore the Decepticon symbol. Small wonder they’d never heard of Gigalonia, nor received a shipment from it.

He’d pointed this out to Nightbeat. The detective took careful note and decided to keep quiet – indeed, he banned the others from mentioning Decepticons. Cautious as always, Nightbeat was unprepared to offer any information to the natives without knowing all the facts himself. “Never ask a question,” he reminded Omega, “to which you don’t already know the answer.” Omega had disagreed with the decision, but kept silent nonetheless.

With typical aplomb, Nightbeat had then demanded to see “the boss”. They’d been taken out into the distant fields and found the Grounder leader, Metroplex, lying dead in a muddy purple crater.

Always hungry for a mystery, Nightbeat had dived right into his element, taking charge of the “crime scene” and hustling the grieving giants out of his way. The others chose to stay but Omega had returned with Landfill, more concerned with preparations for their departure.

“In answer to your question, Omega,” Landfill said, “I’m thinking three revolutions of the planet, absolute tops. There’s a lot to do here, but I’m pretty confident I can make light work of your damage.”

Omega nodded. The sooner they were ready to leave, the better. Being in the presence of so many giants – beings bigger than even he – was uploading unpleasant memories of Unicron.

\-----

Nightbeat heard the wailing a split second before locating its source. Checkpoint was barrelling toward them, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The white-and-black truck screeched to a halt behind them, throwing a deluge of purple muck into the air. Most of it splattered onto Thundercracker, whose face contorted into a mask of pure murder. Checkpoint didn’t seem to notice as he transformed and grabbed Nightbeat roughly by the arm.

“I have to speak to you,” he said breathlessly. “Right now!”

Without waiting for an answer, Checkpoint dragged his partner away from the natives. Nightbeat allowed himself to be pulled for a hundred metres or so, then dug in his heals. “What the frell has gotten into you?” he demanded, his patience thin. “Matrix help me, if you so much as hint there something moving in that crater I’ll…”

“Nightbeat,” Checkpoint said pleadingly. “He’s dead. Metroplex is dead.”

He gave the truck a withering look. “Well, _thank_ you for that news update, Captain Obvious,” he sighed. “Perhaps now you’d like to trundle on back to the crime scene and actually discover something _useful_?”

Checkpoint ignored the rebuke. “You don’t understand,” he gasped. “It’s not that he’s dead _now_ , it’s that he’s been dead for a while. Not hours, not days. _Ages_.”

Suddenly, Nightbeat was interested.

“That corpse down there,” Checkpoint continued, “shows no signs of life. Its Spark chamber is not only empty, it holds no trace of residual radiation. That means…”

“It means the chamber’s been empty for longer than the half-life of a Spark,” Nightbeat finished. His processor whirled. “So what we’re saying is…”

“Metroplex,” Checkpoint confirmed, “was already dead when the assassin fired those three shots. And he had been dead for _centuries_.”


	3. Chapter 3

She’d never really stopped to study Unicron. Indeed, Arcee had not realised the Chaos Bringer was a robot until after it had been defeated. She was too busy running for her life to take notice of the impossibly large mechanoid, to absorb the details of the devilish Transformer.

Which meant the robot standing in front of her was, as far as she was concerned, the biggest Transformer she had ever seen.

He stood hundreds of feet high – which made him shorter than the corpse in the crater but still well and truly massive by anyone’s reckoning. One of his mighty arms ended in a club-like fist, long barrels running down the length of the limb. The other arm widened, just after the elbow, into a long, smooth barrel. The shape of his legs gave away his alternate mode – something like an Earth truck, perhaps even a cement mixer.

When the Transformer spoke, the force of his voice almost knocked her off her feet. He spoke with a gruff, yet not unkind tone. Arcee fancied she could hear a tinge of bitterness, of boredom, in the echoing syllables.

“How much longer,” the giant asked, “are we going to have to wait for the small loud one and the small quiet one?”

Arcee smiled. He was talking about Checkpoint and Nightbeat – and had defined them pretty well, too. “I wish I could answer that one for you, Blender,” she replied, “but the fact of the matter is that, once those two get talking, vorns begin to roll by.”

“They gossip worse than a gang of decrepit Mini-Cons,” Thundercracker offered, his tone smooth and oily. “Better get yourself some lubricant, big fella, because we might be waiting a while.”

Blender laughed, causing the muddy plain around them to rumble. “Been a while since we’ve had a bit of spunk in these parts,” he said. A wistful look crossed his enormous features. “Been a while since we’ve had much of anything different in these parts.”

Arcee looked around. Purple rocks, purple mud, purple dust, purple sky. “I suppose it would get a little same-y around here.”

“More than you can imagine,” Blender replied. “Work all day, work all night then work some more. Not too many mechs cut out for that sort of life.” He gestured toward the crater with his barrel-arm. “Metroplex, of course, would hear nothing against his system – in his world, you either worked or were scrap metal to be mined.

“Can’t say as I’m surprised someone popped the big guy,” he said, his lack of compassion evident. “Only a matter of time before someone’s screws loosened enough for them to glitch on the boss-bot.”

The comment struck her as strange. Thundercracker must have felt the same way – Arcee saw his optics narrow. _Suspect_ , she thought to herself. _Nightbeat would hear that and decide Blender had motive._

A diode on her wrist blinked. It was Nightbeat’s signal to join him down in the crater. “Excuse us,” she said to Blender. “We’ll all be back in a cycle or two.” She transformed into a white, black and pink motorbike and raced away. Thundercracker folded and changed into a midnight blue assault jet and took off.

The “ex-Decepticon” was far faster and arrived well before Arcee. As she transformed back into robot mode, she could hear Thundercracker and Nightbeat arguing... already. Checkpoint was standing slightly back, looking nervous as always.

“Some detective!” Thundercracker spat, waving his arm dismissively. “What, you see a red badge and all of a sudden lose your objectivity?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Nightbeat replied coolly. “I’d never exclude a potential suspect – especially Blender, after that comment. All I was saying was that Autobots are far less likely to assassinate someone from a distance, to commit murder! It’s not in our basic programming.”

“What makes you think,” Thundercracker glared, “that these mechs are Autobots? If it’s the badge and the badge alone, then you’re dumber than I thought.”

He kicked at the purple mud angrily. “These guys _aren’t_ Autobots, they’re Grounders – miners, workers, idiots digging themselves into extinction day by day! Don’t be blinded by the fact you share a symbol with these fools. They ain’t your kind.”

Arcee opened her mouth to speak, but noted the expression on Nightbeat’s face and stayed silent. The detective’s jaw was set, his optics narrow and blazing a fiery orange.

“One off-hand comment does not a murderer make,” he said, chewing each word before letting it out of his synthesiser. “You found a clue – _congratulations_. But I’d like a little more evidence before we loop an electro-noose over the nearest skyscraper. Hints of Blender’s combat training, perhaps? Proof he’s skilful enough to group three shots – as you put it – so professionally?”

Nightbeat paused. “It’s an interesting point, that. We’re on a planet of miners and workers, none of whom exhibit the least little bit of fighting prowess. Yet our killer is such a crack shot so as to earn the respect of the mech who trained the Decepticons.”

He pointed over to Arcee. “You beat her down here when I called,” he said, “which means you’re pretty quick. Maybe even quick enough to duck out for a quick spot of homicide before joining the rest of us on the tour?”

He lowered his voice, almost hissing. “Why the rush to judgment, Thundercracker?” he asked scathingly. “Looking for someone to pin your own handiwork on?”

The ex-Decepticon drew up to his full height – one and a half times that of Nightbeat – as his crimson face twisted into an ugly snarl. Arcee’s hand went to her Energon longbow, and she saw Checkpoint finger his weapon as well. Nightbeat stayed motionless as Thundercracker flexed his wings – one of which transformed, as they all knew, into a deadly sword.

Nightbeat levelled his gaze at Thundercracker. “I’m only too aware of how things are done in your ranks, Decepticon, and I’m not keen to repeat your side’s mistakes. We’ll do this properly and by the numbers… we’ll do this _my way_. Clear?”

They stood there, sights locked onto the other – Autobot detective and Decepticon warrior – for almost a full cycle. Then Thundercracker snorted, grinned sadistically and dropped back into his customary slouch. “Crystal clear, _boss_ ,” he sneered. “We do it your way. Pray tell, where do we look next?”

Nightbeat grinned, the expression more malicious than any Arcee had seen on her friend’s face before. “Next,” he said in clipped tones, “we go speak to _your_ kind.”

\-----

“You’re insane.”

Omega Supreme watched the contrast of emotions. On one side of the room stood Landfill, whose silver-and-gold features were etched with horror. On the other side stood Nightbeat, who wore a malicious grin that, yes, could have been a sign of insanity.

“You can’t seriously be asking that,” Landfill continued, his voice almost trembling. “I mean, _no one_ wants to go there. No one. It’s… well, it’s just not done!”

Nightbeat closed his optics and sighed. He rolled his head around on his neck bearings, a full 360 degrees, and turned back to Landfill.

“Not done doesn’t mean can’t be done,” the detective mused. “Unless, of course, you’re telling me there’s something on this world that your gentle touch can’t alter.”

Omega winced. He could imagine how badly that would have stung Landfill’s pride. His skills as an engineer were everything to him – his passion, his talent, his reason for staying online. Nightbeat had certainly picked the right target. Then again, he always did.

“Of course it _can_ be done,” Landfill rankled. “It just _shouldn’t_ be done. Not by anyone with a modicum of sense, anyway.”

Nightbeat laughed. “No one’s ever accused me of being sensible, so let’s not start now. How do we get to the Flyers’ base?”

Omega sighed. _Things had been going so well_. Repairs on his body were nearly complete, which would get them back in the skies. He and Landfill had already devised a plan. Each “Force Chip” gave off a unique energy signature. All they’d have to do is gather up the Autobots, board his vehicle mode and scan for the Planet Key from orbit. Simple. Easy. Non-confrontational.

But no, Nightbeat wanted to beard the lion in its den. He wanted to walk right into the middle of yet another group of giants – one likely to be hostile, given its choice of faction symbol – and start asking his usual brand of pointed questions.

It enough to complete the mission, find the artefact and save their world from a yawning black hole. Now there was a mystery to solve, and a murderer to “bring to justice”, Nightbeat’s processor was in overdrive. Noble sentiments were all well and good but, Omega knew, they would lead to a fight. One he swore to stay away from.

Landfill shifted his bulk over to a large computer console. His claw-like hands tapped a series of commands onto a keyboard the size of three Iacon billboards. “You get to the Flyers’ base the same way you get anywhere on Gigalonia,” the engineer said quietly. “You take the Global Space Bridge.”

Finally, the grin slipped from Nightbeat’s face. “The what?”

It was Landfill’s turn to smile. “One of the better results of my gentle touch,” he said smugly. “It’s a system of tunnels I designed that cris-cross the interior of Gigalonia, giving all Grounders fast, efficient transport to and from digging sites.”

He tapped the keyboard again, triggering a holographic image. It showed a cross-section of the planet, sketched in purple lines. Hundreds of mining sites were show in green and, between them, were strung bright golden threads. There were, Omega saw, thousands of twisting, turning pathways boring through the very rock of Gigalonia. When he looked closer, he could see small red lights twinkling along their lengths… Grounders, shown in real-time, going about their daily work.

“Pretty,” Nightbeat quipped. “Can’t say as it’s even possible, though. If you were to dig that many tunnels, the surface of the planet would collapse in on itself.” He cast his eye over Landfill’s bulk. “Especially with the weight of you mechs.”

“They’re not tunnels as much as they are pathways,” Landfill replied, warming to his subject. “Each portion of the Global Space Bridge begins and ends with a physical, real-world tunnel,” he gestured to two of the green mining sites, “but that only goes a few hundred feet. Once you hit the threshold, you’re catapulted into Transwarp space and that takes you through to the other side.”

Checkpoint shook his head. “Too dangerous,” he murmured. “Transwarp isn’t the most reliable of technologies. The chances of going off-course and ending up thousands of parsecs from your intended destination… or even thousands of _years_ earlier than your intended destination… are high.”

Landfill nodded. “That’s a problem for space travellers in a hurry. On Gigalonia, we’ve got nothing but time.” He pointed to one of the twinkling red lights. “We drive through each Transwarp portal at normal speed, removing the danger. The journey takes a while – as long as it would were the portal a real-world tunnel – but it’s safer that way.”

He rocked back on his heels. “If you’re crazy enough to go see the Flyers, then the Global Space Bridge is the way to get there. I’d still counsel you against it, though… Grounders and Flyers don’t exactly mix, and they’re best off left alone.” His expression turned sour. “We work together for the good of the home world but that’s it – when you get down to it, we’re as different as mud and shoal.”

“On this planet, who’d notice any sort of difference?” Thundercracker sniggered.

Nightbeat pursed his steel lips. “Give us a second,” he said, gesturing for his team to join him. They huddled together, and he spoke in hushed tones.

“It’s risky, yes, but our best shot at getting to the bottom of all this,” he said. “There are suspects closer to home, as it were, but I’m not willing to make conclusions without some more data. It’s cliché to assume a Decepticon is behind this, but that’s no reason to blind ourselves to the possibility.”

Nightbeat glanced at Thundercracker, who nodded curtly. Omega guessed they’d already had words.

“That said, I don’t want us all going,” the detective continued. “This space bridge thing is a calculated risk, but we’d be mad to place the whole team in jeopardy. There’s still the Planet Key to find, no matter what.”

“About that,” Omega spoke up, his voice ten sizes larger than his body. “Landfill and I think we can pinpoint the missing Key by its unique energy signature. If you like, I’ll remain here and keep working on that concept.”

“Do it,” Nightbeat agreed. “Checkpoint, I want you back down in the crater walking the grid.” His partner winced. “You lit out of there like your carburettor was on fire just because Metroplex was long dead – who knows how much other useable evidence you’ve missed?” Nightbeat scolded. The truck-bot sighed glumly.

He told Arcee to stay with Checkpoint, then turned to Thundercracker. “You and I are going to see the Flyers. Maybe you’ll be able to speak their language or something.”

“Translation: I don’t trust Thundercracker so I’m keeping him by my side,” the ex-Decepticon sneered. “ _What_ ever. I could care less, seeing as this isn’t going to work anyway.”

Omega agreed. He’d had enough of Nightbeat’s “command”. He had vorns of experience leading mechs in the field, of accomplishing strategic goals in the best manner possible. The detective’s curiosity was taking them down roads they need not travel, and wasting their limited time. The singularity would consume more of Cybertron with every moment they tarried.

“Nightbeat, a word,” he said, beckoning the other Autobot over. The detective walked a short distance then stooped, head tilted slightly to one side. “I have… issues… with your orders,” Omega continued. “Surely Checkpoint’s skills would be better used helping to diagnose problems with my main body, the better to get it repaired. And taking Thundercracker with you is asking for trouble.

“The search for the right energy signature, meanwhile, would be shorter with all of us aboard, working together to seek out the frequency. This investigation of yours is wasteful.”

For a moment, Nightbeat said nothing. Omega could read nothing in his expression – could glean no hint of a reaction. “Huh,” Nightbeat finally said. “Well, if that doesn’t beat all.”

Omega was puzzled. “What are you trying to say?”

“Guess I’m surprised, is all,” Nightbeat said lightly, folding his arms and lazily tapping one finger on a forearm. “I seem to recall a field commander telling me, once upon a time, that ‘unyielding resolve has no conqueror’.

“I took it to Spark, that little ditty, and applied it in my own way – you know, refusing to give up when faced with dizzying odds, honing my determination to do the job right and well. The job of _protecting_ mechs from death and destruction and senseless slaughter. From being murdered while trying to live their lives.

“Still,” he added, “I guess it’s not as important on an alien world, is it? Especially when you’re in a hurry to get home and slink into a corner somewhere.” He snorted. “I’m glad you weren’t on Earth with us.”

As he watched Nightbeat walk away, Omega felt smaller than ever before. His very Spark was burning. _You certainly picked the right target_ , Omega thought ruefully. _Then again, you always do._

\-----

“Blender! We’ve got another blockage!”

Arcee watched as the Grounders called to their new leader. There’d been no ceremony, no passing of the torch… not even a period of mourning for Metroplex. The giants had stopped, for a while, to watch her team investigate and then wandered off. They’d gone back to work, and were now taking their cues from Blender.

 _Rather convenient_ , she thought to herself. _And a perfect motive for regicide. Or, in this case, Metrocide._

Her communicator whistled – Checkpoint was calling. “What are they doing up there?” he asked, sounding strained. “The vibration readings down here are off the scale. I have real concerns the crater walls are going to collapse in on me and bury me in this purple muck… to say nothing of the evidence that will be lost!”

Arcee rolled her optics, glad the security director could not see her. “Everything’s fine, Checkpoint,” she assured him. “The Grounders have just gone back to work. Blender said that, if they couldn’t resume digging down there, they’d move a few kilometres and start afresh.” She grimaced. “I couldn’t exactly say no to them.”

“Ah,” Checkpoint replied. “I understand. Well, I shall redouble my efforts to ensure I’m out of this pit before it decides to fill in from the top.”

She turned her attention back to the Grounders. Though they were kilometres away, their size made them easy to follow. They were clustered around a large slab of purple granite that was jutting up from the otherwise featureless plain. It seemed to be occupying the point at which they wished to dig.

As she watched, Blender spoke to each of his workers in turn. They transformed into a variety of vehicles and drove away, forming a very wide perimeter around the offending rock. Blender stayed in robot mode but dropped back also, taking long strides away from the rock. Finally he turned to face it.

With a whir and a clank, the pipes on his left arm began to transform. A long, thin handle unfolded from the gap between the tubes, which moved together and closed the gap. Blender flicked his arm at a savage angle and the pipes broke free, soaring up into the air and back down again. He caught them deftly by the handle and levelled the device – a projectile weapon – at a spot toward the centre of the rock.

Arcee touched a finger to her temple, activating her drop-down visual enhancers. The red visor slid into place over her optics and boosted her zoom capability. At the same time, she calculated trajectories and zeroed in on the spot where, she was sure, Blender was aiming.

She was off by a foot, but it didn’t matter. Three bolts of emerald energy lanced into the rock, perforating it. The shots were grouped very tightly, forming a tiny triangle of identical round holes. She breathed in sharply – it was the same grouping as Nightbeat found on Metroplex!

She deactivated her enhancers and stared at Blender, who had placed the weapon back on his forearm. Now, he was turning to point his left arm – the massive barrel – at the rock. The giant’s shoulder disconnected from its socket and swung out, attached only to the edge of his back. The barrel, meanwhile, ratcheted up as his elbow folded into the gap left by his shoulder. Pieces of his upper arm swivelled over and connected to the top of the barrel, then plugged into slots at the top of his shoulder. Finally, the barrel split into halves and slid backward, revealing a large missile launcher set into the hollow of the drum.

All at once, Arcee understood. The three shots had been to weaken the crystalline structure of the rock, to soften it up for a single missile impact. Less wasteful that way… and as efficient as everything else on Gigalonia.

Blender dropped the slotted visor over his optics and fired the missile. It streaked into the rock and exploded, sending a shower of debris in every direction. Most of it bounced harmlessly off the watching Grounders, while a few pieces came perilously close to where Checkpoint was working. The obstacle removed, the other Grounders all but charged the spot and started digging with fervour.

Her communicator whistled again. “Are we under attack? Are they throwing rocks at us? Has Thundercracker torqued them off?” Checkpoint demanded.

She rolled her optics again. “Go back to work, Checkpoint,” she huffed. “I’ve got something I need to look into myself.”

Arcee took three steps and then transformed into vehicle mode, racing away over the plains and toward the main mining colony. Blender _could_ have fired those shots, could have been the one who tried to murder the already-dead Metroplex. Nightbeat would have said he’d had means and motive, leaving only a question of opportunity.

The fembot was pretty sure there’d be an oil bar somewhere on Gigalonia. And, if there was, that some mech in that oil bar would be willing to talk about Blender and Metroplex.

\-----

One half of him drove while the other half thought. Somehow, all of Nightbeat managed to admire the Global Space Bridge.

The Transwarp tunnel network was an amazing accomplishment. As promised, the trip had begun in a normal, real-world tunnel – carved so expertly the sides were almost polished smooth. When he and Thundercracker had reached the end, however, both had felt a vague tugging sensation… as if they were being stretched beyond their design parameters.

After a moment of elasticity, they were snapped into a half-spherical, rainbow-coloured tunnel that seemed to stretch into infinity. They passed under what looked to be steel arches, hundreds of feet above. Intellectually, Nightbeat knew there were no arches – Transwarp space was not a physical place and so structures could not be erected within it. Landfill had somehow managed to program the system with a user-illusion of a tunnel, easing the nerves of the wary.

He almost regretted the grief he’d given the gold-and-silver giant. Anyone who could weave such architectural magic was someone worth getting to know. Still, he had no time for pleasantries – as Omega Supreme had so graciously pointed out. If brusqueness got the job done, then brusque is what he would be.

Every now and again they would pass, or be passed, by other vehicles. They were all Grounders, a procession of excavation equipment on its way to yet another dig. Few of the metal juggernauts noticed the tiny car and small jet weaving amongst them, headed for a destination most avoided.

Thundercracker hailed his internal communication. The half of Nightbeat that was driving responded.

“Comfortable down there, _boss_?” the jet asked deviously. “You want I should swoop down and pick you up, carry you over all the big, bad Tonka trucks?”

Nightbeat responded in song.

”A buzzard took the monkey for a ride in the air  
The monkey thought that everything was on the square  
The buzzard tried to throw the monkey off his back  
But the monkey grabbed his neck and said ‘now listen, Jack’  
Straighten up and fly right  
Cool down, papa, don't you blow your top.”

There was a hiss of static. “You’re an idiot,” Thundercracker growled as he broke the connection.

Nightbeat ignored him. _Too many variables, too little information_ , he thought. _How does a dead Transformer walk around for centuries? Better still, how does a dead Transformer lead an entire planet without anyone noticing he’s a zombie?_

_Interesting, but ultimately peripheral to the case. It’s likely the murderer has possession of the Planet Key. If I don't find him, he’s going to have killed a lot more mechs than a pre-murdered mining ‘bot. The only way to find the killer is to run a proper homicide investigation… starting with the usual suspects._

The traffic was thinning out, while the tunnel seemed to narrow ahead of them. “Still sure you want to do this?” Thundercracker asked over the communicator. “Not too late to turn ‘round, take a closer look at that Bender guy.”

“Blender.”

“ _What_ ever.”

“No, we’re doing this,” Nightbeat said resolutely. “It’s the only way.”

Thundercracker snorted. “Suit yourself,” he said, then powered past Nightbeat and dove into a shimmering rainbow mass in front of them. _End of the line_ , Nightbeat thought grimly as he accelerated into the light show.

He emerged on the edge of a purple cliff face, and slammed on his brakes. He skidded in next to Thundercracker who was standing, in robot mode, motionless. Nightbeat transformed and drew close to his “partner”, a quizzical look on his face.

“Shanix for your thoughts, gruesome,” he said.

“Gha…” Thundercracker replied. “One. Big. Mech.”

Nightbeat looked up… and up… and _up_. Had it not been for their altitude, he would never have seen the angry, angular face of the Transformer in front of them. It was huge, as big as Metroplex, with circular shoulders and large wings. One of its trunk-like arms bore a large drill bit while the other finished in three long, protruding electro-prongs. The detective’s processor raced – the devices were a perfect match for the wound on Metroplex’s chest!

The giant growled. Thundercracker activated his shoulder-mounted cannons and firing off three short blasts. The crimson bolts stabbed into the behemoth, and it roared with fury. Its three-pronged hand clutched at the wound on its chest… a wound made up of three small dots, all grouped closely together.

Instinct took over. Nightbeat threw himself at the ex-Decepticon, knocking him to the ground. “You!” he bellowed. He was being insane, but he had to know. “Was it you, Thundercracker? Why? And what have you done with the Planet Key?”

Thundercracker, far stronger than the detective, threw him off. “You’ve lost it, exhaust-for-brains,” he snarled, drawing his wing-sword and hefting it in his right hand. “Scan your databanks, genius – you haven’t let me out of your sight since we arrived on this mudball!”

Nightbeat was about to argue, but changed his mind. “Move!” he screamed as the giant’s drill hand came crashing down. He transformed and drove away, back to the mouth of the Global Space Bridge. Thundercracker shot straight up in the air, steering with just one wing, and went on the offensive. His sword flashed and his cannons fired as he darted and ducked around the giant’s clumsy swings.

The juggernaut’s head fell back as it howled in pain, and Thundercracker seized the moment for a final strike – an oil-chilling slash right down the centre of its chest plate. The swipe severed twin blasters mounted on the plate and dug into the circuitry beneath, throwing up sparks and fountains of lubricant.

The giant’s face twisted in pain, then _sunk down into its neck_ , leaving behind a hollow head. Its chest plate swung down on waist-mounted hinges, and thundered into the cliff. From within the giant Flyer tumbled a small, delicate-looking robot. It bounced and rolled and came to a stop right by Nightbeat’s tyres.

Its grey face framed two large black optical sensors. Its body was blue and black, with a cockpit taking up most of the torso. It had a crane-like structure on its left shoulder and a small, teardrop-shaped device on its right. It gripped a tiny blue Energon sword in its right hand but seemed too weak to use it.

“What the frell?” Thundercracker asked as he landed.

A scuttling noise came from the cliff’s edge. As one, they turned to see a horde of vaguely insect-like vehicles clatter over the purple rock. They walked on four legs, wielding Energon swords on back-mounted cranes. Hundreds of them, coloured either blue or red or yellow… and all bearing the Decepticon insignia.

With a shriek, the creatures advanced on Nightbeat and Thundercracker.


	4. Chapter 4

“So if I save your life, will you finally believe I’m on your side?”

Nightbeat ducked as the humming blue blade cleaved the air above him. Pieces of metal and chunks of machinery rained down over him. He lifted his rifle and snapped off four shots, the resultant explosions showering him with more debris.

“Thundercracker,” he hissed, “if we get out of this alive, I’ll nominate you to be the next Prime!”

Shoulder-to-shoulder, the Autobot and ex-Decepticon struggled to stay alive. Their foes – insect-like, four-legged beasties with very sharp swords – swarmed over them in seemingly infinite numbers. For every one that fell to wing-sword or plasma rifle, six more clattered up. In isolation, their weapons could do little damage. Eventually, though, they would be worn down… or simply trampled into the rock itself.

Thundercracker side-stepped a leaping mechanoid and stabbed his sword into its cockpit. The glass shattered musically. Nightbeat pumped a shot into the creature behind it, rendering it still. He fired at three more, then realised their opposition was thinning out.

“Err,” he said, pointing to one side. “I don’t think I like this.”

The creatures had circled around behind them, blocking their access to the Global Space Bridge portal. They had also transformed to robot mode, forming a phalanx of gold, red and blue robots. As one, they transformed again – their forearms sliding down and becoming wrist-mounted pile drivers. The tiny devices activated, simultaneously, with a whine of hydraulics and stabbed, piston-like, at the air.

“Yeah,” Thundercracker agreed. “I’m not crazy about it either.”

In unison, the small robots rammed their pile drivers into the cliff. Cracks spider-webbed their way across the rocky surface and wreathed around the feet of Thundercracker and Nightbeat. With a sickening groan, the cliff face gave way and crumbled to purple dust.

Nightbeat fell helplessly, turning head over feet. He had no idea where Thundercracker was until a dark shape swept under him, dragging him up and out of the debris. The ex-Decepticon had transformed, in mid-air, to his jet mode and snatched him in the process. He clung to his vicious ally’s sleek surface.

“Like I said,” the jet sneered, “ _your_ side. What’s say we drop this whole ‘Thundercracker could be the killer’ guff and get back to the task at hand?”

Nightbeat could only growl a reply.

As they flashed past the portal, Nightbeat could see the little robots clinging to the rock face. Back in their vehicle modes, they had dug in with their legs and were climbing toward the summit. Thundercracker easily overtook them and performed a sharp barrel roll, throwing Nightbeat from his back and onto a higher ledge. The Autobot yelped as he landed, hard, on his rear axle, but the ex-Decepticon was unsympathetic.

“Cool down, papa, don’t you blow your top,” he sniggered. “Back in an astro second.”

Nightbeat watched as Thundercracker pointed his nose straight up, stalled and fell back toward the ground. He stared, wide-opticed, as his ally plunged down, seemingly out of power. The little robots watched, as well, from vantage points on the cliff face itself. They had dug their legs into the very rock and hung there, laughing shrilly at their enemy.

Their laughter turned to cries of fear as Thundercracker transformed, steadied his descent with boot-mounted thrusters, and flipped his shoulder cannons into place.

Thundercracker fired as he fell, leaving plumes of smoke and shattered robots in his wake. Farther and father he fell, cutting a swathe through the yellow, red and blue mechanoids as he went.

“For a group of Flyers, you sure seem eager to cling to that rock,” he howled.

Finally, he caught sight of something – Nightbeat could not tell what it was – and changed direction, zooming straight for the purple rocks. For a moment, he vanished beneath the blossoming explosions and thick, inky smoke.

When he emerged, he flew with wing-sword in one hand and a shrieking, flailing form in the other. It was, as far as the detective could tell, the robot that had fallen from the chest of the larger mechanoid … and it was pleading for its life.

The ex-Decepticon hovered closer to Nightbeat, then stretched out his arm. The little robot cried and wailed as it looked down toward the ground, far below, and waved its arms helplessly. It was so close to him that Nightbeat could see the lubricant pouring freely from its large, dark optics.

“Thinking about attacking?” Thundercracker roared at the survivors of his onslaught. “Don’t. I tend to get a little… _clumsy_ … when startled.” For emphasis, he let go of the robot, catching him a split-second – and a few feet – later. Below, the horde backed away.

Thundercracker smirked at his hostage, levelling his wing-sword at its throat. “My friend here is dying to ask you some questions,” he said, nodding toward Nightbeat. “I suggest _very strongly_ you do your best to answer them.”

\-----

Big mechs, big bar stools.

She really shouldn’t have expected anything different, but then again Arcee hadn’t been thinking too clearly since arriving on Gigalonia. The size and scale of everything around her seemed to defy her processor, throwing precise sub-routines out of whack. Perspective was called for… and where better to gain perspective than in a pub?

Arcee managed to haul her chassis to the top of a seat. For the first time, she knew how Kicker and the Mini-Cons must feel, looking at her. She was far from the biggest Autobot but was, in her own way, a giant. _In the eye of the beholder_ , she thought grimly.

Attracting the attention of the humungous bartender, she ordered a drink – it came in a cup as big as Omega Supreme’s claw hand. She was trying to figure out how to drink it when a dirt-cacked Grounder, fresh from the mines, slammed into the next seat. Large excavation tools jutted from his form at various angles, while his legs and arms were covered with tank-treads. He seemed more purple than the rest of his kind, and it took a moment for her to realise parts of his bodywork were actually painted in the colour. The rest of his form had a sickly, neon green hue.

“Must be tough,” she said, trying to strike up conversation, “having a purple paint job on a planet like this.”

The giant didn’t seem to hear her at first, then slowly… creakingly… his head swivelled toward her. He was perhaps four times her size and, unlike the other Grounders she’d encountered, his demeanour was unfriendly.

“Pretty little thing like you ought to watch her synthesiser,” the Grounder said swarthily. There were a few chuckles from around the room – glowing optics swinging their way. “A pink and white fembot,” he continued, “has no business talking about a mech’s paint job.”

More laughter. Arcee bristled. Backing down was totally unlike her but, for the sake of the mission, she needed to. She’d come here for information, for some background on Blender and his relationship with Metroplex. And, as Misha had once told her, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

So she pushed her feelings aside and smiled. “Didn’t mean to offend,” she said, which was as close to an apology as she was prepared to utter. “Just can’t imagine anyone on this rock actually _wanting_ to be purple. You ask me, it’d be like a Slugarion volunteering to be dyed brown.”

Arcee was gambling her audience knew what a Slugarion – a swamp-dwelling native of Plythera IV – was, and that it bathed all day in fetid brown water. Apparently they did – a chorus of laughs and cheers went up. Her smile grew. _Maybe this won’t be so hard after all_.

The giant next to her, however, wasn’t laughing. He held up one hand and, suddenly, neither was anyone else. Whatever the chain of command here on Gigalonia, this mech obviously had the run of the room. “See, that synthesiser of yours is more trouble than its worth,” he said with a hint of menace.

“Look, I’m just here for information,” she said, tiring of the game. “I’m from Cybert… from the home world, but you already knew that. I’m trying to get a handle on who killed Metroplex and I need some questions answered. Questions about Blender.”

“Fembot ought to keep her jaw shut and work on lookin’ after a mech, rather than playing soldier,” the big mech spat.

 _Playing soldier?_ Her radiator boiled.

“Gigalonia’s a rough place for a fembot… ‘s why we don’t get too many ‘round here.” The giant continued, unaware of the danger he was in. He reached out and ran a thick finger along the length of her leg assembly, causing her optics to telescope with surprise.

He leaned in close, his oral exhaust reeking of silt and sulphur. “Maybe you’ve realised that already, so you’re looking for a protector. Them fancy off-worlder friends of yours ain’t gonna be much good to you, down the line – too damn small. You’re wanting a real mech, I reckon.”

Arcee’s smile was saccharine sweet. Then she twisted her expression… and the giant’s finger.

He cried out in pain and alarm as the thick digit buckled, pop rivets wrenching free from their sockets. Arcee bent the tick finger back, sending a spasm of feedback up his arm receptors. Textbook _crystalocution_ move. The Grounder’s free hand slapped uselessly at the bar while his neck hydraulics bunched and tensed.

“Let’s try this again,” Arcee hissed, increasing the pressure on the tortured finger. “Metroplex. Blender. Pals or what?”

There was a noise behind her. She turned to see another Grounder – yellow, brown and big – bearing down on her. Arcee lashed out with one foot and caught the mech square in the nose, forcing struts into its cranium. On a normal-sized Transformer the move would be lethal, on the Grounder it was at least debilitating. He fell back while Arcee used her momentum to twist her would-be suitor’s finger into an all-new configuration.

The patrons were staring to get restless – she could hear large feet stamping toward her and mining equipment starting up. Arcee pulled an Energon knife from her hip and thumbed it to life. She drove the orange blade through her boyfriend’s finger, just above the first knuckle servo, and into the stool, pinning him in place. Then she leapt up onto the bar and ducked around behind her massive drink.

As the other Grounders crowded in, Arcee pivoted into a spin kick. The pitcher of oil leapt into the air, trailing an arc of thick, rich lubricant. She drew her Energon longbow and notched an arrow, all in one smooth motion. The projectile flew from her hand and struck the oil, igniting a giant molitov cocktail that splashed across the bar room floor. A wall of flame shot up, separating Arcee and her new friend from the maddened crowd.

The valkyrie stalked back to her pinned suitor and placed on hand on the hilt of the knife. Then she leaned on it, relishing his scream. “You were about to tell me about Metroplex and Blender,” she snarled.

“I… was about… to blow your stinking head off,” the Grounder replied, bringing his other arm around. A compact but nasty looking blaster jutted from his large fist and filled her visual receptors. “Frelling fembot trash.”

Something flickered by his shoulder. At first, Arcee thought it was a heat mirage. When it moved and struck with savagery, she knew it was real. A yellow baton crashed onto the gun and bent it. A second weapon smacked into the giant’s face, shattering one of its optics and denting it across the nose plate. Then both batons lined up and belted the Grounder’s face, again and again, until he spluttered off line.

Arcee raised her bow and notched another arrow – her rescuer’s identity gave her no comfort. Her “saviour” was a tall Transformer covered in black and gold armour. He carried the batons in ivory-coloured arms and stood on jet-black legs. The expression on his golden face was dispassionate, almost Spark-less. Most chilling of all, he wore a crossed-out Autobot symbol on his chest just above the mark of the Decepticons.

“Wheeljack,” she breathed, drawing bead on the defaced faction logo.

“ _Cover agent_ Wheeljack,” he corrected her, his expression unchanging. “Breaking cover for an urgent communiqué to Nightbeat’s team on Gigalonia.”

\-----

The little robot called itself Frenzy, and was only too willing to talk. Trouble was, its voice was so high-pitched and grating that Nightbeat wished it would shut up.

“Okay okay okay! So I tried to slag you – I’m sorry already!” It whined, thrashing in Thundercracker’s grip. “But it was an honest mistake, I was being greedy! There’s plenty of ore here… we can share it, just gimme a chance!”

“You mean the ore,” Nightbeat asked, “that’s allegedly bound for Cybertron?”

Frenzy laughed, loud and nervous. “What are you, a stupid Grounder or something? How the frell am I gonna ship ore to Cybertron? I mean, there’s _millions_ of us down there, all right, but it’s not like we can turn into a star cruiser or anything!”

Nightbeat and Thundercracker looked down, past the now-wispy smoke and hordes of angry robots. At the bottom of the valley was a long, straight conveyor belt, piled high with purple rocks and metals. Halfway down the line, teams of yellow robots were reprocessing the raw materials into sheets of steel and iron. At the far end of the belt, teams of blue robots were bolting and fusing the sheets onto giant metallic skeletons.

Thundercracker whistled. “Exo-suits,” he said approvingly. “ _Big_ ones.”

Some of the suits had been completed. Red robots were climbing into them, through their open chest cavities, and transforming into a third mode – shapes like face plates. It was something like the banned Headmaster process, Nightbeat thought, but slightly different. Frenzy and his cohorts became the faces and processors of their suits, not the heads. They were… Brainmasters.

“Disgusting,” he spat. “So you tell the Grounders the ore is going back to Cybertron and, instead, keep it to build battle suits. You trick a bunch of gentle souls into doing all the hard work, leech off of them and build weapons from their labour. I suppose an armed insurrection is the next step?”

Frenzy smiled evilly. “Once we get the weapons systems working, yeah.”

Nightbeat slugged him. The little robot yelped and spat oil from a ruptured conduit line, while his optics rolled in their sockets.

“Whassamatter, not up for a little well-planned fuel-shed?” he sneered. “We gotta do something, you know… as soon as the Grounders remember out how small we are, the game is up and we’re _sheet metal under their feet_.”

"Remember?" Thundercracker demanded.

"Oh yeah - we used to be the tiny little 'bots that ran around after them, doing all the slag-work they couldn't be bothered with," Frenzy sneered. "They're so focused on being big, on everything being large, that they didn't even notice us disappear, and didn't think to question where the 'Flyers' came from. All they knew was the new guys were big, and so they were good." He coughed. "Once they figure out it's us inside, though, we're dead."

“Autobots… sorry, _Grounders_ wouldn’t do that," Nightbeat said. "It’s not in their programming.”

Frenzy chuckled. “So you say. Not from ‘round here, are ya? The big boys, they don’t have a lot of patience for anything smaller than them, you understand?”

Thundercracker shook his hostage violently. “Let’s get back on track,” he yelled. “You said the weapons systems weren’t working. How long until that changes?”

“A ways,” Frenzy said, his synthesiser rattling with the force of the shaking. “If I’d had weapons on my Molediver, you two would have been slag.”

Nightbeat caught the look on the ex-Decepticon’s face and understood. The “Molediver” suit’s weapons were not operational. Even though the configuration of the electro-prongs was a perfect match for Metroplex’s wound, it could never have penetrated his armour without power.

“Scratch one suspect,” Thundercracker said. Then he looked into the valley, noting the thousands of identical robots toiling on the conveyor belt. “Make that _a million_ suspects.”

Nightbeat furrowed his brow, thinking. Something was niggling. About Metroplex… how he was already dead when he was “murdered”… and the exo-suits down in the valley and, most of all, something Frenzy had said.

He let his so-called irregular logic work its magic. He’d watched a cartoon once, back on Earth, where a character used a wall chart to list all the members of a massive conspiracy. Each conspirator was linked to the other by lengths of red wool. Nightbeat believed his processor worked the same way as that chart – all he needed to do was unravel the ball of wool.

He looked up sharply, a connection made. Turning to Frenzy, he let a wan smile creep over his face plate.

“So,” he said pleasantly. “Which one of your friends crawled up inside Metroplex, a couple of centuries ago, and turned him into a glorified exo-suit?”

\-----

“There was a smaller robot inside Metroplex, operating him like a piece of equipment for thousands of years, and nobody noticed?”

Checkpoint was incredulous. Nightbeat didn’t blame his long-time partner – the more esoteric explanations always befuddled his logic circuits.

“Seems Frenzy and his partner in crime, Rumble, hatched a scheme to keep them rolling in minerals,” Thundercracker explained. He was leaning on the side of Metroplex’s broad, blue arm, almost camouflaged against it. “They had to do something, they figured, to keep their race alive.

“It had been years since the Grounders had paid much attention to the tiny little creatures running around their feet. They figured they weren’t even sentient, and eradicated ‘em like pests.”

“So they claim, anyway,” Nightbeat called from his perch atop Metroplex’s chest. “I’ll admit that, right now, I don’t buy it. Whatever they call themselves, these mechs are Autobots.”

“ _Any_ way,” Thundercracker continued. “The boss Grounder liked to work alone, so they snuck up on him and cracked his cerebral casing with their pile driver arms. From there, it was just a matter of shucking out his internals and installing a nice, comfy seat for Rumble.”

Checkpoint blanched.

“From then on, Rumble told the Grounders what to do and, pretty soon, they were mining ‘ore for the home world’. Little did they know that, all along, they were supplying the eventual Flyer uprising.” He sniffed. “Pretty sweet scheme, actually. They ain’t Decepticons, but they don’t do too bad.”

The security expert looked quizzical. “Then, if Rumble was operating Metroplex from within, that would explain how the big ‘bot was dead when the assassin struck. But where’s Rumble now – and, more importantly, the Planet Key?”

Nightbeat ran his fingers over a panel on Metroplex’s chest. There was a design just below the centre point – a black orb with a fan jutting out from under it. Each segment of the fan, he realised, was a button… a coded switch. He tapped the segments at random, flicking his fingers at high speed to try multiple combinations.

With a hiss and a crack, Metroplex’s upper chest split in two, revealing a cramped cockpit dotted with dials and switches. A small stash of Energon cubes was tucked into one corner. Thundercracker and Checkpoint joined Nightbeat, the former giving voice to their mutual feelings.

“Gross.”

“I’ll say,” said a voice from below. “You’d never catch me turning my chest into someone else’s cockpit.”

Nightbeat saw Arcee and her drawn longbow a second before he glimpsed her target – the Decepticon warrior called Wheeljack. He drew his plasma rifle and took aim, an instant slower than Thundercracker and Checkpoint.

“Nice to see I’m held in such high regard,” Wheeljack said without a trace of concern. “Means my cover is working properly.”

“Cover?”

“He claims,” Arcee said tensely, “that he’s a deep infiltration agent. That he’s been working for us all along, feeding information to Prime on the quiet. Says only a few of the inner circle are aware of his dual nature.”

“Though, in some ways, it’s pretty obvious,” Wheeljack offered. “What other reason would I have for saving Silverstreak’s bumper all the time? Like on Speedia, the planet I just came from… saved him _and_ ensured the Autobots came away with the Planet Key. Now,” he smiled tautly, “I’m here to help all of you.”

“A load of slag,” Thundercracker muttered. “I remember when this traitor joined up with us. He’s a psychotic killer, a lunatic – worse than even Starscream. If he’s a double agent, then I’m a Matrix Templar.”

“Actually,” Checkpoint said quietly, “you may be wrong about that one.”

“If you’ve got something to share, Checkpoint,” Nightbeat said, not moving his rifle, “now’s the time.”

Checkpoint swallowed. “As security director, I’m privy to a lot of sensitive information,” he said, lowering his weapon. “Optimus Prime once told me there was a deep cover agent somewhere inside the Decepticon forces – someone we’d often encountered but would not suspect – and that the agent had permission to kill to save his cover.”

“The part I like the least,” Wheeljack said mournfully. “I look like I relish it but, in truth, my Spark aches with every mech I take off-line. It’s a horrible existence, but what has to be done if we’re to end this war.”

Thundercracker fired two shots at Wheeljack, ripping up the purple soil at his feet. “Shut your damn mouth!” he cried. “Nightbeat, this junk pile is lying to you! I know it – he’s probably the one who shot Metroplex!”

Nightbeat shook his head. “Wheeljack doesn’t carry guns, Thundercracker. Only energy batons.” He, too, lowered his weapon. “And his defection never made any sense – I should know, because I investigated it.

“Few of us even knew him when he was an Autobot. He had no connections, no real friends, no history.” He watched as Arcee dropped her bow. “My inquiries uncovered nothing. Now… now I know why.”

Wheeljack nodded, keeping one wary optic on Thundercracker. The ex-Decepticon had not deactivated his cannons, and his face was creased with pure hatred. “I cannot believe you’re swallowing this,” he said grimly. “You can’t trust this ‘bot… he’s a filthy traitor. He’s lying, believe me.”

The detective stared hard. “I’m supposed to believe you – someone who’s sworn to kill us all as soon as he’s deposed Megatron. I’m supposed to take the word of a mech who plays by his own rules and loudly promotes the Decepticon ideals, all while menacing my friends?”

“Haven’t you listened to anything?” Thundercracker raged. “Of _course_ you are! You may disagree with my beliefs and ideals, Nightbeat, but I’ve never wavered from them – I’ve stayed true to myself, no matter what.

“Traitors like Wheeljack,” he snarled, “don’t believe in _anything_. They jump from one side to the other when it best suits them. They’re fair weather soldiers, loyal only while the side is winning.”

Nightbeat frowned. “You’re not making any sense. He’s even named your pet suspect as the killer!”

“That’s what I mean – it’s all too neat, too perfect,” Thundercracker said. “Besides, since when do you believe in regular logic?”

“Sometimes things _are_ that simple, Decepticon. Black and white.”

Wheeljack coughed, still unaffected by the ordnance pointed his way. “I may be able to sort all this out,” he said. “My group of Decepticons arrived in time to see Metroplex get shot to scrap by some big guy with a cement mixer for an arm.”

“Blender,” Arcee confirmed. “I saw him use his arm like a gun to break up some rocks… starting with three shots in tight-grouping, just like the wound.”

“No sooner had… Blender, you said? This Blender fired on him than a small, wiry red robot leapt out and made for the hills. The rest of the ‘cons are tracking him.” Wheeljack tapped a display on his forearm. “My information says he’s about 140km due west of here. You have some way of confirming this, I assume?”

Checkpoint whispered into his communicator, contacting Omega Supreme and Landfill. A moment later, he nodded the affirmative.

“That,” Nightbeat said, “settles the debate.” He walked to the edge of Metroplex’s chest and jumped off, followed by Checkpoint. They joined Arcee and Wheeljack and, as one, turned west.

“Hold on!” Thundercracker yelled from atop the ancient corpse. “You’re going _with_ him now?”

“We know where the Planet Key is, we know who the murderer is – both of them – and we know where to go to wrap this up,” Nightbeat said tersely. “This is the sort of information a double agent is supposed to provide, you know. Now get down here and let’s get going.”

Thundercracker crossed his arms. “Nuh uh,” he said. “You want to go with the nutcase, it’s your funeral. I’m staying right here. Get yourselves killed, but leave me out of it.”

Nightbeat took a long, last look at his former ally. “You expect us to trust and believe you, to place faith in you… and you can’t even admit it when you’re wrong,” he spat. “You’re pathetic, Thundercracker.”

The Autobots transformed into their vehicle modes and drove west, leaving Thundercracker and the dead behind.

\-----

The trail ended at yet another cliff face, this one looking out over a beach. Grains of light purple sand were tossed by the lavender surf, which thundered and roared with a rising fury. The wind was picking up, the weather turning foul.

Nightbeat was well and truly sick of cliffs. Still, he surveyed the scene and tried to find beauty in its mono-hued nature… and failed to do so. He would be glad when they had the Planet Key and were away from Gigalonia… the place was getting to him.

Wheeljack transformed, then held up a hand. “Checkpoint, you’re going to have to switch off all your heightened sensors,” he said. “This Rumble character has some pretty nasty sonic weapons on board. They knocked the lug nuts out of me, so I’d hate to think what they’d do to you.”

The others transformed, and Checkpoint smiled. “Very considerate of you, Wheeljack,” he said. “It’s so nice to be dealing with a ‘Decepticon’ who has some idea of manners.”

They all laughed – even Wheeljack – and Checkpoint dialled down his sensitivity.

Up ahead were a series of cave mouths. “Rumble’s in one of those. Readings show they twist and turn a bit,” Wheeljack advised. “The ‘cons are in the far tunnel – it was, as far as I could see, a dead end – which leaves these two for us. I’ll go with Checkpoint, Nightbeat, while you and Arcee take the one on the right.”

Nightbeat looked at his partner, who nodded confidently. “I’ll be fine, Nightbeat,” he said boldly. “We can’t be joined at the hip all the time, can we now?” The detective smiled, inwardly thankful. The last thing he needed was to be trapped in a dark, claustrophobic tunnel with Checkpoint and his ever-present paranoia. He just hoped his friend wouldn’t drive Wheeljack to a true psychosis.

They split into their pairs and ducked into the tunnels. Nightbeat activated the red and blue police lights on his chest, cutting through the gloom. The coloured lights cast odd shadows around the enclosed space. “Blue and red,” he quipped, “just like 3D glasses back on Earth.”

“You really need to get out more,” Arcee replied, sliding down her visor and switching to infra-red.

They walked in silence, hearing only the echoes of their metallic feet. An hour passed, then two, without any sign of Rumble. Nightbeat walked the tiny grid of the caves, checking in every direction and finding nothing. Wheeljack had said the Flyer had used one of the three tunnels – it must have been another.

He flinched as he turned a corner and stepped into unexpected sunlight. He managed to throw a hand up to shield Arcee’s optics, giving her time to retract her visor. They had come out onto the beach.

A voice called his name – Checkpoint, emerging from the other tunnel, about one hundred metres away. The Autobot looked disconcerted… even more so than usual. “I lost Wheeljack,” he cried. “He’s somewhere in there, I think. I got a little uncomfortable and he told me to go on… should we go back for him?”

Nightbeat saw a glint of metal in the darkness of the cave mouth. Instinct told him to dive for cover, and he grabbed Arcee and pulled her down at the same time. As his face hit the purple sand, he heard three shots ring out – a tight, concentrated burst. The assassin! Blender must have found them somehow!

He looked up to see Checkpoint standing, dazed, in the middle of the beach. A thin line of oil drooled from his mouth and down the side of his jaw. His optics were dark with static. As he fell forward, the wind whistled through three small, tightly grouped holes that ran through the centre of his chest plate.

Behind the fallen Autobot… in the shadows of the mouth of the cave… stood Wheeljack. He was armed with a short, thin blaster.

“Just because I don’t carry one of these, Nightbeat, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use them,” he said in a cold, dead voice.


	5. Chapter 5

“No!”

She watched in horror as Nightbeat sprinted toward his fallen partner. Deadly energy bolts lanced into the purple ground around him, missing his broad feet by just inches. Arcee leveled her bow and fired volley after volley, desperate to distract Wheeljack from his target.

She succeeded… in having the traitorous warrior sight on her instead.

Arcee transformed to vehicle mode and took off, her speed keeping her just ahead of Wheeljack’s deadly barrage. The Decepticon may have been able to use a blaster after all, but he was not particularly good at it – if she’d been facing someone like Slugslinger, she’d have been dead already. Her tyres sank slightly in the purple sand. Thinking fast, she changed direction and headed for the water’s edge – the sand would be muddier but slightly firmer there and, at speed, she’d be able to travel better.

The sand hissed beneath her, while stray shots hit the water and threw up geysers of steam. Arcee ignored it all, concentrating instead on charting a path back toward Wheeljack. She chanced a glance at her rear scanners. She could see Nightbeat reaching for Checkpoint’s right arm, and briefly wondered what he was doing. Then her proximity alarm screamed a deathly warning.

She tried to move but it was too late – a massive hand rose out of the surf and caged her in luminous, green fingers. She tried to transform but could not – the space around her midsection grew smaller and smaller. A deep, vicious laugh echoed around her and she knew, instantly, the name of her jailer. Her processor reeled in fear as she was lifted and brought level with a steely, cruel face.

Tidal Wave. She was caught in the mammoth grasp of Tidal Wave.

\-----

Half of his processor registered the shots around him. That same half tortured itself with the realisation he’d utterly duped by a psychotic with a convincing story. Fifty per cent of his systems screamed in silent indignation, burning with the knowledge that _Thundercracker was right_.

The other half of Nightbeat didn’t care about any of it. All it wanted was to save Checkpoint.

Nightbeat dropped to his knees as he reached his partner, his hands moving quickly but uselessly over the oil-splattered Autobot. He had _no idea_ what to do. Everything he knew about mechanics, he’d gleaned from watching Earth televisions shows. Clueless, he plunged his fingers in the wounds, trying to staunch the flow of oil from a half-dozen severed hoses.

He raged at himself. _I let my partner – my partner! – go off with someone I shouldn’t have trusted, all because I was annoyed with him. He had his sensors off, he was in the dark and frightened… and all I could think about was sneaking away so I didn’t have to hear him complain. Idiot!_

Checkpoint’s head lolled at a sickening angle. He coughed up mouthfuls of fluid as muttered something unintelligible. His right arm rose, feebly, and fell back to the sand, his Spark of Combination facing up and glinting in the purple sun.

Half of Nightbeat’s brain noticed the spherical device and, letting go of its indignation, formulated a plan. The other half knew it was risky – that it could cost both their lives – but agreed nonetheless. _Amazing_ , Nightbeat thought, _what guilt will make you do_.

He pulled his fingers from the wounds and reached for Checkpoint’s Spark of Combination. Alone amongst the Autobot forces, Checkpoint and Nightbeat could activate the other’s combination process – forced fusion, he called it. All it required was the guts to risk sharing every ounce of your existence with another… because if one half of the Powerlinked duo died while combined, so too did the other.

Nightbeat didn’t hesitate. Checkpoint’s body twisted and contorted into its third form – a bulky lower torso and a pair of powerful legs. The detective changed as well. It was a sickening feeling, your legs turning into arms and your body spinning around on itself. Coupling plates activated, drawing them together with a crackle of static electricity, and they had Powerlinked.

New sensations filled Nightbeat’s processor. Though dominant, he gained all of Checkpoint’s knowledge and abilities, as well. He could see the world through his partner’s senses… experience the strange scents, tastes and noises others missed… yet they were dull, muted, because of his injuries. For a moment he was frightened, but he pushed Checkpoint’s paranoia away and drew both their weapons.

He took aim at Wheeljack and fired, the blasts going slightly wide. Checkpoint’s injuries were now taking their toll on Nightbeat. Still, the Decepticon stopped firing on Arcee and turned to face him.

“Ah, how touching,” Wheeljack said thickly. He tapped his chest plate. “Team-ups always get me just _here_ , you know?”

He dropped his blaster and drew his energy batons. The yellow sticks hummed and crackled in the salty air, leaving yellow trails as they moved and weaved. Then Wheeljack vanished. It would have been, Nightbeat realised, how he’d gotten the drop on Checkpoint – with his extra sensors off and, in the dark, he would have had no way of tracking the traitor’s stealth mode. _Still, that was then – this is now_.

Nightbeat paused, letting Checkpoint’s perceptions synch up with his split processor. He knew _exactly_ where Wheeljack was. His first shot must have caught the Decepticon by surprise, because he yelped. The second, third and fourth blasts struck home with unerring accuracy, and Wheeljack shimmered back into view.

He snarled angrily and tried to close the gap with a leap. Nightbeat growled back and fired twice, catching the airborne warrior in the shoulders and throwing him back to the sand.

Wheeljack lay prone as Nightbeat staggered over to him. Checkpoint’s legs were responding poorly, and he knew they’d have to separate soon or both go offline. Still, there was no way Wheeljack was leaving the beach alive. He’d made a fool of Nightbeat, he’d proven Thundercracker right and he’d likely killed Checkpoint.

“All right, I’m done – take me in,” Wheeljack purred, offering his hands up for Energon manacles. “The Autobot code says you have to take me prisoner – when I get to the Pit, I’ll have to thank the Wreckers for that change of policy.”

Nightbeat said nothing. His face was a death mask of silence, hovering above the barrel of two loaded, cocked and aimed weapons.

“Hmm,” Wheeljack said whimsically. “You’re going to kill me, then.” He sighed, as if it was all too painfully obvious. “Sorry, Nightbeat, but that’s not going to happen today.” He raised two fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly.

The side of the cliff exploded with a shower of rock and debris. A vehicle rocketed out of the hole – a type of car Nightbeat had never seen before. It had two large wheels at the rear and a single wheel at the front, set beneath a thin cockpit. It was powered by two large, white, rear-facing turbines sitting on top of its rear wheels.

As Nightbeat watched, the trike spun in place to face him. Something red glowed at the rear of the strange car then, with a horrid noise, the turbines flipped up and over. They transformed into front-facing cannons and took aim at him. He tried to move but Checkpoint’s legs gave way beneath him, and he sank to the ground right in the path of the massive, whining cannons.

\-----

Landfill completed the last micro-weld and smiled. High above, his head finally back on its shoulders, Omega Supreme smiled as well. The Gigalonian engineer had not only repaired his body, he’d improved it. Small things Omega had noticed over the centuries of combat… a bar in his rotator, a slight pull in his left knee, minor strut strains and unaligned targeting systems… were gone. He felt like he’d just rolled out of the Plasma Energy Chamber, fit and ready for…

… well, not for combat. But for whatever was in store for him.

He nodded his appreciation to Landfill, who bowed theatrically. They’d become fast friends over the last few cycles. The gold and silver native truly was a miracle worker – Red Alert and Downshift rolled into one – and it would be a shame to have to say goodbye.

Still, their departure had seemed imminent. Checkpoint had called an hour earlier, seeking confirmation of some new data they’d uncovered. A quick check of Landfill’s jury-rigged instruments showed the Planet Key was somewhere in the coastal cliff region. Omega wondered how they’d come across that information. Nightbeat’s intuition, probably.

Experimentally, Omega flexed his claw hand and swivelled his various turrets through 360 degrees. Internally, he ran a systems check of his Transwarp drive and other space-faring systems – 100 per cent ready to do. All they needed to do now was wait for the others to return.

“Frelling hack!”

The curse came from somewhere near the repair bay’s entrance. The two giants headed in that direction and found Thundercracker. The ex-Decepticon was venting his very obvious frustration on a stack of engine blocks, slicing them into successively smaller pieces with his wing-sword.

“Blasted Nightbeat!” he roared. “Calls himself a detective and then runs off at the first sign of an obvious slagging trap! He’s gonna get his skid plate scrapped, and I shouldn’t care…”

“… but you do,” Omega finished gently. He smiled softly, his face in stark contrast to Thundercracker’s furious expression. “You’ve been working with us for too long, Decepticon.”

The jet sighed, his shoulders sagging. His posture dropped, and they slackened their grip on him. “That’s the worst thing about it,” he spat derisively. “That, and learning there was an Autobot double-agent under my nose for vorns.”

Omega frowned. “You know about the deep-cover agent?”

“Know?” Thundercracker laughed sarcastically. “The junk pile _introduced himself_ to us out there, solving Nightbeat’s little mystery in one fell swoop!” He shook his head. “Wheeljack whips himself up a little fake nutcase act and I swallow it. Feh – once an Autobot, _always_ a slagging Autobot.”

Panic flooded Omega’s software. “Thundercracker,” he said slowly, “Wheeljack isn’t the deep-cover agent.”

The ex-Decepticon looked startled. “I know who the deep-cover agent is,” Omega continued. “He was responsible for feeding me all the information that allowed me to keep Iacon safe during the siege. It’s not Wheeljack.”

“He’s been played,” the jet said. “Mr high-and-mighty has been played for the chump he is.” He strode toward entrance. “First I’m gonna save his useless chassis, then I’m going to carve ‘Thundercracker was right’ into his forehead!”

He made it halfway to the entrance and then stopped. “You coming?” he called over his shoulder. “Wheeljack tends to travel with a pack, you know.”

Omega winced. His vow, his promise to never again take up arms, was prominent in his mind. He wanted to help his friends, save them from their enemy… but if he acted, he would fail. He’d come in at the wrong time, or make the wrong decision and cost them all their lives.

Suddenly, the ruined engine blocks exploded. Instinct took over, and both Omega and Thundercracker turned and aimed their weapons at the smouldering heap. Beside it stood Landfill, hefting a long, gold and silver assault rifle in his claw-like hands. The weapon was the length of Omega’s forearm.

“Heh,” the Gigalonian smirked. “Still works.” With thunderous strides, he took his place next to the stunned ex-Decepticon. “If this guy’s half as dangerous as you say, Thundercracker, he’s likely the one who murdered Metroplex. I’m not about to let that slide… not while my old excavating cannon here still works.” He patted the weapon fondly. “Let’s go.”

Thundercracker stared at Omega, his crimson optics boring into the giant’s very Spark. “If you’re going to stay a coward,” he hissed, “you can stay here alone.”

\-----

Arcee was living her worst nightmare. She was trapped in her motorcycle mode. She _hated_ her Earth-bound form. Something inside her rebelled at the idea of a fembot transforming into a vehicle that required a rider, a form that could be steered, a mode of transport that others straddled. The rest of the Autobots looked at her strangely whenever she complained, but Misha – the girlfriend of their human ally, Kicker – seemed to understand. She and the female human had become fast friends and, with Kicker’s help, made a few… minor alterations… to her form.

One of which was about to come in very handy.

Arcee concentrated, sending a small pulse of Energon into her wheels. It spread up into her clear red spokes, then formed razor-sharp Energon blades on the surface of her tyres. Shifting gears, Arcee spun her wheels.

The tiny blades began to dig into the giant Decepticon’s green fingers, a red glow filling the enclosed space. Steam and electrical sparks began to fly and, with a yelp and a roar, Tidal Wave relaxed his grip. Arcee transformed to robot mode and, wasting no time, drew her Energon bow.

She took aim at the centre of the Decepticon’s long, thick nose – taking pleasure in his stunned expression – and loosed volley after volley. It was Tidal Wave’s one weak spot, and the giant howled and screamed as the small bolts bit into his most sensitive area. Then he flexed his arm and _threw_ Arcee away.

She sailed through the air. Fear pushed in at the edges of her consciousness and, though she tried to fight it, she lost her grip on her Energon bow. Realising there was little she could do, Arcee curled herself into the tightest ball she could and prayed she’d land on something soft.

With a clang and an aching blast of pain, she collided with another Decepticon – a green and white, three-wheeled car. Recovering her sensors, she realised it had been aiming at Nightbeat – who was, for some mad reason, Powerlinked with the injured Checkpoint – and that the impact had sent its blast awry.

She slumped to the ground, unable to move. Intuitively, she knew she’d bent her spinal strut – if not broken it – on the new Decepticon’s unyielding armour. _At least I saved Nightbeat_ she reasoned to herself, taking pride in the smallest pyrrhic victory. Then her Spark sank as a shadow fell over her, and Tidal Wave – his face blistered and pockmarked – leaned in for the kill.

“Little fembot wench,” Tidal Wave growled, ever the pirate. “Too small to even be worth keel-hauling. I think I’ll just crush you now, and take your head as a new prow decoration.”

Arcee heard a whistling sound as a large artillery shell slammed into Tidal Wave’s face. It exploded with unbelievable force, throwing the giant back into the surf. He fell like an uprooted tree, his entire head blackened and smouldering… his eyes dark and offline. The entire beach shook as he landed. The salty purple water extinguished his burning head and generated clouds of broiling steam.

Painfully, she turned to see Landfill standing on top of the cliff, shouldering an impossibly large gun. Thundercracker was next to him and, once he caught sight of Arcee, winked in his usual devilish way. The ex-Decepticon transformed into jet mode and made a beeline straight for Wheeljack.

\-----

He wanted to run, to go over and check on Arcee, but there were two problems. The first was Checkpoint’s legs, which still refused to move. The second was the big green Decepticon, who was decidedly unhappy about missing his target.

Nightbeat could only watch as his opponent transformed to robot mode. It was almost triangular in shape – broad, armoured shoulders tapering down to small blocky feet. Long, almost ape-like arms ended in sledgehammer heavy fists and, when it moved, the ‘con knuckled it was toward him. Its head was a small, round chunk of metal atop little or no neck, with vaguely flickering optics set above a thick lockjaw-type mouth assembly. Despite the danger, Nightbeat wondered if his new “friend” was even capable of complex thought.

“Crumplezone!” Wheeljack yelled from behind them both. “Kill!”

“Well, Nightbeat quipped sourly. “That’s one mystery solved, at least.”

Crumplezone picked up the pace, knuckling closer to the downed Autobot. Nightbeat raised both his weapons and fired. Even at point-blank range, the plasma bursts ricocheted off Crumplezone’s bodywork, doing him no more damage than the smoke and steam whipping up the beach.

With a thud, Landfill’s massive frame dropped into the space between them. Crumplezone’s head slowly ratcheted up… and up, and up… as it scanned the golden giant blocking his murderous path. For a long, silent moment, the Decepticon sized up his new adversary, then opened his mouth. “Big… bot…” he slurred, his voice thick and slow. He transformed and sped away.

“Even a mental midget can have a flash of insight,” Landfill laughed

Quickly, Nightbeat explained what had happened. Landfill’s expression darkened. “I can probably fix Checkpoint – at the very least, keep him alive until we make it to a CR chamber – but you’re going to gave to uncouple from him first. I can’t be trying to keep you both alive when…”

There was a sickening crash and Landfill fell – Nightbeat only just managed to roll out of the way. He watched as the bigger robot _fell to pieces_ in front of him. His arms and spine separated from his chest and head, falling in different directions, while each of his legs tumbled away.

Following it all down came Crumplezone, in vehicle mode, and Nightbeat realised what had happened. The mad ‘bot had rammed Landfill from behind with such force he’d shattered his body!

Crumplezone transformed in mid-air, landing on his legs and knuckles. He fixed his optics on Nightbeat, not even bothering to turn and look at his victim. “Big… bot…” he slurred again. “Little… pieces.”

\-----

Try as she might, the valkyrie could not move. Whatever strut Arcee had bent – she refused to consider permanent paralysis – was going to need some heavy-duty work before she was up and running again. If she made it to a repair bay alive… the look at Wheeljack’s face, and the face he held his Energon batons, made her wonder.

She was not about to give up. She was an Autobot, irrespective of her physical situation. Optimus Prime had taught them all that surrender was never an option. From a pouch on her thigh she took a handful of small blades and throwing stars. If she was headed for stasis lock, she’d leave the traitorous slime facing a repair session he’d never forget.

Wheeljack stopped as someone whistled to him. “Hey, psycho boy!” called a familiar voice. “I don’t think the lady’s interested!”

Thundercracker sauntered over, his wing sword already drawn. Arcee smiled with relief. The ex-Decepticon caught the look and smiled back, and Arcee felt her face plate warm. Despite herself, she was happy to see Thundercracker. _Am I going crazy or something?_

“Now I know she’s got a bit of a reputation for being fierce,” Thundercracker continued, still grinning. “And I know a lot of people say she has a taste for the bad mechs.” He winked at her. “Well, it’s all true – but Wheeljack, frell, you ain’t half bad enough for this chicky-bot?”

“Chicky-bot?” Arcee cried out angrily.

“Shh, honey,” Thundercracker said, teasingly. “Daddy’s working. I’ll come unbend your strut… in more ways than one… a little later, okay? Got to talk with the boy here first.”

Wheeljack’s face shifted into neutral. “I’ve heard enough,” he said, coolly.

“Thank Primus for that,” Thundercracker replied tightly. “This bantering slag hacks me off no end. What’s say we just get to the part where I kill you?”

They leapt at one another, weapons flashing in the purple sky. Thundercracker was remorseless, his blade whistling through the air as it stabbed and slashed, again and again, at Wheeljack. The former Autobot blocked and parried every blow but, despite having two weapons, never had the chance to launch an attack. Thundercracker was too fast… too angry.

“Mechs like you disgust me!” he shouted over the fray. “You’re a living slagging example of everything that’s wrong with the Decepticon army! The first loose screw off the assembly line given a gun, pointed in a direction and told to march!”

His attack grew more intense, and Wheeljack fell back. “Being a Decepticon is about rising up against oppression! We don’t follow orders blindly! We don’t swallow the first line we’ve given! It’s not about superiority over lesser races, it’s not about conquest or oil-shed! It’s about choosing our own destinies, deciding how we live our lives – about not being controlled by someone else!”

Wheeljack dropped to one knee, trying to block another blow. Thundercracker swung two-handed, driving his wing sword through the baton and into his foe’s shoulder. Wheeljack’s arm was severed at the joint and fell away, oil spurting and spraying from the wound.

“Megatron forgot all of that,” Thundercracker sneered. “Or maybe he never knew it in the first place – maybe he just fed me the slag I wanted to hear, to get me on side. Scum like you, Wheeljack, are the reason I left – the reason I’ll only come back when Megatron’s dead. Scum like you fight for any cause that gives you the right to kill… any war that lets you threaten _my friends_!”

The wing sword flashed again, lopping off Wheeljack’s other hand. With a gurgle, the black-and-white Decepticon went into shock, then stasis lock, and tumbled onto the beach. Thundercracker glared at the inert lump, kicked it once for good measure, then sheathed his sword and strode over to Arcee.

The gentleness in his touch surprised her. He cradled her in his arms so softly, making sure to keep all pressure away from her spine. He even favoured her with a slag-eating grin, as if to assure her everything would be fine from now on.

It was an awkward, uncomfortable moment… but for some dumb reason, she wanted it to last forever. She’d seen Thundercracker’s legendary “warrior’s spirit” in action and lived to tell the tale. He was no longer the shadow in her nightmares. Still, she couldn’t help herself. “Your friends, huh?”

Thundercracker winced sourly. “Slip of the processor,” he said.

\-----

Crumplezone moved like he had all the time in the world. And maybe he did – despite an emergency Energon dump, Nightbeat could not get Checkpoint’s systems to reboot. His friend had become dead weight, paralysing him below the waist and leaving them both easy prey

The lumbering Decepticon’s turbines flipped up and over his shoulders. They locked into place with a loud _snap_ , and whined as they powered up once again. _Just like Thundercracker’s cannons_ , Nightbeat thought. _And here I always thought I’d end up at the wrong end of those guns_.

Crumplezone’s head lolled to one side as she shifted his gaze past Nightbeat. The detective could hear footsteps behind him, and tried to shift around. He looked up at four gold and silver Transformers, each standing about as tall as his Powerlinked form.

One carried Landfill’s long rifle, the other his saw-toothed shield. The two remaining Transformers also shared characteristics with the golden giant – one had bulldozer blades atop his arms, much like the ones on Landfill’s chest. The other had a long steam-shovel array jutting from his shoulder, just like Landfill.

The smallest of the group – the one with bulldozer trimmings – stepped to the front, brandishing a double-barrelled weapon. “Build Team!” he called in a youthful voice. “Let’s do some demolition!”

The quartet moved as one. The ‘bot with the rifle peppered Crumplezone with explosions. That kept the big lug off balance enough for the one with the shield to strike, opening the weapon and using its serrated jaws to pin the Decepticon in place. The steam-shovel waded in next, battering Crumplezone’s moronic head with clawed hands and splayed, cross-shaped feet.

It fell to the smallest to deliver the coup de grace. Dropping to one knee, the little mech took careful aim and fired a series of pencil-thin, pinpoint blasts into Crumplezone’s exposed joints. Then he raised his hand and made a circular motion, calling his troops back to his side.

The Decepticon stood there for a long moment, seemingly unaffected by the assault. Then he shuddered, ever so slightly, and his eyes went dim. “Not… feel… so… good,” he muttered, then collapsed on the sand. Nightbeat exhaled loudly.

Gentle hands gripped him by the shoulders and ankles, lifting him up and laying him out on the sand. “Nightbeat,” said the smallest one. “I need you to uncouple from Checkpoint so we can fix him, just like we said. Can you do that for me?”

The face was that of a stranger, but the voice was familiar. “Landfill? You’re…”

“A gestalt entity,” the little one smiled. “I’m Wedge, and this is the Build Team.” He gestured toward the rest. “What, you think one mech working by himself could have dug all those tunnels for the Global Space Bridge?”

Nightbeat deactivated his Spark of Combination, transforming back to his solo robot mode. Checkpoint, however, stayed in his leg configuration – his injuries worse than expected. The detective tried to rise, but staggered as his systems filled with Energon again. Two of the Build Team caught him before he fell.

“Ease up, Nightbeat, you’ve had a big day,” said the one with the shield. “I’m Heavyload – I’ll carry you back to the mines.” He transformed into a large golden dump truck, his shield forming the carry bay.

The steam-shovel helped Nightbeat in. “You’re pretty much fine,” he assured the detective. “Maybe a half-cycle in the CR and you’ll be as good as new.” He snapped his claw-like hands. “The guys you were fighting are going to need a lot more work, though.” He grinned.

“And you are?” Nightbeat asked.

“Oh, sorry – how rude of me!” He extended a claw for a handshake. “The name’s Grimlock.”

Nightbeat rolled his optics. “It would almost have to be, wouldn’t it?”

“Room in there for one more?” asked a familiar voice. Thundercracker walked up and lowered Arcee in next to Nightbeat. “I think her strut’s bent,” he said, the concern in his voice surprising,” but she’s a tough broad.”

He winked at Arcee, who smiled back. Nightbeat rolled his optics again.

Wedge looked around. “Where’s Hightower?”

The rifle-bearing member of the team was standing in the surf, digging around the legs of the fallen Tidal Wave. He grunted as he tried to prise open the giant’s cargo bay doors. “There’s someone in here!” he called in a gruff tone. “I’ve… almost…” he grunted with exertion, “got it!”

A segment of steel flipped open, and Hightower trained his weapon on its interior. A very small and very dazed-looking robot poked its head out. It had the same large, dark eyes as Frenzy, but its armour was a deep and brilliant red. “Um,” it asked in a scratchy, punk-like voice, “I surrender?”

“Rumble,” Thundercracker breathed. “Wheeljack was telling the truth about that much, at least. He and Frenzy killed Metroplex, took over his body and ran the show. Then Wheeljack and the ‘cons shot Metroplex from a distance, thinking they’d killed him. Rumble takes off, lugging the Planet Key with him, they give chase and capture him.”

Hightower joined them, holding the struggling Rumble by the neck. “Good theory,” he said, “Except for the fact he don’t got no Planet Key. Just an ordinary, run of the mill, silver ‘n purple Force Chip.” He held the disc up to the light.

Half of Nightbeat’s processor went away from the conversation, running through all the available data. For the first time, it also had access to everything Checkpoint had found… including one vital piece of data the security officer had overlooked.

“No, he doesn’t have the Planet Key,” Nightbeat confirmed. “But I know who does.” He glared at Thundercracker. “And _so do you_.”


	6. Chapter 6

Their faces were ashen and dour, their postures slumped. But what struck Omega Supreme the most was the overwhelming sense of sadness radiating from his friends – the pure grief and misery that seemed to cling to them like a sickly fog. They were in pain, from Spark to armour, because they had finally identified Metroplex’s murderer.

He was with them, this criminal. The dangerous, bloodthirsty monster who had fooled them through sheer guile and cunning. With a wink and a smile, he’d wormed his way into their lives and positioned himself right where he needed to be. Now he stood revealed, hands and feet bound with Energon manacles, walking in step with the rest of his filthy kind.

Wheeljack, Crumplezone and Tidal Wave limped along in a chain gang, severely injured but afforded no mercies. That would come, Omega knew, in time – when the pain of betrayal had passed. His level gaze flicked past them to the murderer, to Metroplex’s killer… to a traitor most heinous.

Thundercracker.

The jet was frustratingly happy, even in defeat. His eyes gleamed with secret knowledge and his jaw was set proudly – defiantly. Not even the spotlight of discovery could take the edge off his arrogance, and Omega found himself longing to slap the “ex-Decepticon” about the head a few times. Small wonder he’d pushed so hard for Omega to join the raiding party – he’d wanted to wipe out the entire Autobot team in one savage act.

In a most un-Autobot moment, Nightbeat stuck out his foot and tripped Thundercracker. The blue-and-red mechanoid fell, drawing taught his chains and pulling the other prisoners down with him. They tumbled into the purple dust, cursing and swearing.

“Less than you deserve,” Nightbeat spat. “Much, much less.”

Arcee was in a CR chamber, healing. Checkpoint was on life support for horrendous injuries. His Spark was flickering, near to snuffing out completely, and no one knew for sure if he would survive. This, Omega reasoned, was the cause of the haunted look in Nightbeat’s optics. Just as the giant Autobot had warned, the detective’s quest had wasted time and put them in danger. Perhaps now, he would learn his lesson.

Landfill had filled him in on most of the details, once they had returned from the fight. How Thundercracker had snuck away from them, in the hours after first landing on Gigalonia, and murdered Metroplex with the three-shot grouping. How he had tried and failed to capture Rumble and the Planet Key, and so called in reinforcements from a nearby space sector. How he and Wheeljack had played them all, swapping traitor for traitor and confusing the issue. And, finally, how Thundercracker had tried to assassinate his accomplices, so as to keep his position within the Autobots secure.

Omega strode away from the prisoner parade and approached Blender – the leader-elect of Gigalonia. Quickly, he filled the giant Transformer in on all that had transpired at the water’s edge.

“If what you tell me about the Flyers is true, the Planet Key’s probably been long melted into scrap and used on one’o their exo-suits,” Blender said sadly. “Doesn’t make no never mind for us – the thing’s no different from any other Force Chip, ‘cept in ceremonial value – but it leaves you lot in a right mess.”

Omega nodded. Optimus Prime believed the four Planet Keys were the only items capable of saving Cybertron from the black hole. If they returned without Gigalonia’s Key, their entire world – if not the universe itself – could well be forfeit.

“We’ll have to stay a little longer,” Omega acknowledged. “The stakes are too high for us to risk failure. Would you provide us with a place to keep the prisoners, just until we can interrogate them? Until we can learn where Thundercracker has hidden the Key?”

Blender gave him the thumbs up. “Easy done – plenty of abandoned mine shafts down there that’d make to-notch cells,” he said. “Best you keep the jet separate from the rest o’ them, mind – he’s the leader, and he’s liable to get ‘em to clamp up about what they might know.”

Omega raised his eyebrow plates at the excellent, yet unexpected, suggestion. “Noted and agreed,” he replied, impressed at Blender’s leadership qualities.

\-----

Even underground, the wind howled.

Like a mournful spectre, it worked its way through the dank purple tunnels and stirred up clouds of fine dust. It rattled disused lighting fixtures and shook discarded equipment as its mad dervish route took it deeper and deeper toward the core of Gigalonia. Soon it would be able to touch the core itself, so deeply had the Grounders dug. It was likely the wind would be the only thing left when the miners reaped the spoils of their destructive toil.

Silently, he crept through the pitch-black tunnels, using the wind’s noise to cover the sound of his footsteps. No one knew how silently he could move, despite his bulk, and it was a skill he’d employed to great benefit. It had served him well when the time came to kill Metroplex and steal the Planet Key, and it would serve him well again this night.

He paused to check his weapon. Even through infra-red vision, he could see its power levels were at 100 per cent. Excellent. There was no margin for error now, not when every other gear had meshed together so perfectly. Very soon, Thundercracker would be dead – killed in a “foolish escape attempt”. The Planet Key would miraculously have been on the jet’s person all along – obscured, no doubt, by some complicated covert system – and the investigation would draw to a close. Simple.

Rounding the corner, he could see Thundercracker sitting in his cell. Much as he would have enjoyed flaunting his victory in front of the arrogant piece of slag, he restrained himself. The last thing he needed was that obnoxious Nightbeat recovering an image from a dead mech’s optics. Though the lack of recognition burned him, he reasoned it was a small price to pay when compared with his eventual reward.

The killer took careful aim, giving his onboard targeting system all the time it needed to establish a perfect lock-on. He needed to use on shot, not three – the deadly-accurate firing pattern had to die with Thundercracker. As he aimed, he wondered what to do with the other Decepticons. Perhaps they would have to attempt an escape, too.

A tone sounded in his head. Target lock had been achieved. Ever so gently, he increased the pressure on the inbuilt cybernetic trigger, savouring the ex-Decepticon’s final moments.

Suddenly, the world around him vanished in a flash of brilliant white light. The brightness stabbed into his optics like a thousand Energon daggers and he staggered back, target lock forever lost. He fumbled madly with his visor, trying to draw it up and over his optics – hoping his sensors could recover outside of the infra-red range.

Spots whirled across his scanners, then spun away. As his view screen cleared, he could see a small black-and-white vehicle parked in front of him. Its powerful headlights were aimed directly at him. A second later, it activated two red-and-blue lights, causing the shadows to leap and dance around the tunnel. An aural-splitting siren sounded as Thundercracker kicked open his cell door and strode into the open space, wing sword at the ready.

The car transformed into Nightbeat, who held aloft a powerful laser light. The darkness receded, leaving no place for the murderer to hide his considerably large frame.

“Hello, Blender,” Nightbeat said humourlessly. “Come to dispose of the evidence?”

\-----

“This is the part you enjoy, right?” Thundercracker asked, shifting his grip on his sword.

“Oh yeah,” Nightbeat said, his face set and hard. “Kind of the detective’s prerogative, you know?”

“Then make it quick… he’s not gonna be around to hear you for much longer.”

Normally, Nightbeat would have relished the stunned look on Blender’s face. Much as he hated to admit it, he lived for the moment of discovery – that split second where his wits were shown to be sharper than those of his opponent. Now, he just felt sick to his sump. Checkpoint was dying or dead, Arcee was badly injured, _Thundercracker had been right_ … because of Blender. All Nightbeat wanted was to get it over with. Still, he had a function to perform.

“You moved pretty silently there,” he told Blender. “Same way you did the day you killed Metroplex, right? And don’t bother to deny it – I’m not talking about the other cycle, after we had arrived. That was Wheeljack and his goons, clueless as always, never knowing they were shooting at a zombie. No, I’m talking about the _real_ murder… millions of years ago, when you killed your boss.”

Blender shifted uncomfortably. “You’re crazy,” he spluttered. “The mech behind you killed Metroplex. Omega Supreme told me. I’m just here to check on the prisoners!”

Nightbeat sniffed. “You’re clever enough to work out a millennia-in-the-making scheme, but so dumb – or arrogant – that you fall for an obvious ruse.” He shook his head. “Thundercracker didn’t kill anyone… well, at least, not today.”

“Not _yet_ ,” Thundercracker hissed.

“You killed Metroplex, millions of years ago, so you could run the mines your way. But you knew no one would follow you – you’re just a grunt, after all. The Grounders had the same lack of respect for you that Metroplex did. He was a mech of schedules and planning, and you hated being just another cog in his machine. So you had your little buddies, Rumble and Frenzy, take up residence in the main man’s processor and run him like a puppet.”

“That’s a lie!”

“I don’t think so. See, Checkpoint’s scans revealed a little something about Metroplex… his armour was _incredibly_ thick. I’m talking die-cast construction – the type you just don’t see these days. Even if they had a million years and a million pile drivers, those little punks could never have broken through that high-grade metal.

“But breaking through things is what you do – isn’t it, Blender? When there’s a blockage, a rock in the way… a mech obstructing your path… you take it out, right? Three tightly-grouped shots and a follow-up blast – no more blockage. Or, in this case, no more Metroplex. Just a large chest, devoid of a Spark core, ripe for turning into a cockpit.

“Rumble climbed on in, and he did whatever you said in return for the materials needed to build exo-suits for his buddies. You, in turn, had a whole army of Grounders to do your bidding… and your bidding was to dig, and keep on digging, until the planet’s core was breached.”

Blender laughed heartily, his confidence boosted. “Now I know you’ve glitched a circuit,” he chortled. “What possible reason would anyone have to commit planetary suicide? We‘re careful miners – we’ll get close to the core and stop! No one’s going to breach the core – what purpose would that serve?”

Nightbeat glanced at Thundercracker. “Convinced?”

“Nuh-uh,” the warrior responded.

“You needed the core breached to jump start the Planet Key,” Nightbeat continued. “When you killed Metroplex, you had no idea it was linked to his life force – just the same way as your Force Chip is linked to yours. _Everyone has one_ , we kept getting told. _One’s no more special than the other_. That’s partly true… provided you’re using your own chip. Stealing another mech’s chip is fine while they’re alive but, when they’re dead… poof. No power.

“So the Grounders dig ore for the Flyers, which they use to make exo-suits. Interestingly, only a few suits – far less than what you could have done with so much raw material. _There’s millions of us, but it’s not like we can turn into a star cruiser_ , Frenzy told us. It’s the truth… but with a few centuries worth of ore, I bet you could build one. Big enough for your entire race – and maybe one large, bossy mech.”

“If he stooped,” Thundercracker sneered. “Or was _missing a head_.”

“When the Grounders breach the core, one of two things will happen,” Nightbeat growled. “If they’re careful miners, as you say, then energy will be released, and the Key will get a jolt and activate – giving you the power you crave. Should they be a little more fallible, though, the entire planet will explode. That won’t bother you much… because you’ll be light-years away, snug on a star cruiser with your little sycophant army,” He glared at Blender. “Then, all you have to do is dangle the Planet Key out the airlock, let it soak up the ambient Energon left behind and blam! The power is yours.

“Meanwhile, we’ll be back to Cybertron with a fake Planet Key… your own Force Chip, painted up to look like the real deal. That’s the other thing Checkpoint found in the crater… traces of gold paint. It meant nothing to him but, for me, it was the final piece of the puzzle.

“You had to touch up the chip you gave to the Metroplex puppet – your own chip – every now and again, eh, to make sure it looked proper? Cover that darn ol’ silver over with some shiny gold – and make sure the real Key got a silver redeco every few cycles.”

“Just proves that all repaints are evil,” Thundercracker snorted.

Nightbeat drew his plasma rifle and took aim at the giant’s head. “Great plan, Blender. You’d have condemned two worlds to death, all for the sake of your own power lust,” he said tightly. “Such a shame it all ends right here, right now.”

Nightbeat and Thundercracker attacked as one, their movements perfectly synchronised. The ex-Decepticon took to the air, soaring inside a perimeter of the Autobot’s weapons fire. The blasts set off the explosives Blender kept in his chest pouches, rocking him back and forth. Thundercracker zipped through the smoke and started cutting, cleaving deep gashes into thick metalwork.

As Nightbeat had guessed, Blender’s weapons were useless at close range, leaving the giant no choice but to fall back. He transformed into a massive, six-wheeled cement mixer and drove at top speed toward the mine entrance. Thundercracker transformed into jet mode and Nightbeat leapt aboard, this time completely ready for the ride.

A turret-like assembly unfurled and snapped into place behind Blender’s mixing drum. It snapped off a series of shots, but Thundercracker was too manoeuvrable. The jet easily evaded the panicked, scattered fire and advanced on its prey.

Suddenly, Blender locked his brakes as Landfill stepped across the mine entrance. The gold-and-silver combiner raised his excavation rifle and fired, the blasts rocking the tunnel around them. Blender accelerated again and drove through his former ally, knocking Landfill to one side as he hurtled onto the purple plains. Nightbeat and Thundercracker followed.

Blender pulled ahead a little further and then transformed back to robot mode. His arm changed again, taking on its cannon configuration. Nightbeat leapt from Thundercracker and changed shape in mid-air, landing on all four wheels and zipping out of range. The ex-Decepticon loosed a volley of missiles from his wing-pods and pulled up, narrowly avoiding Blender’s volatile blast.

Nightbeat transformed, seriously doubting their ability to win this battle. Then Thundercracker came screaming down from the heavens, his tail fins singed and on fire. Something up there, above the cloud cover, had attacked him. He landed, pieces of his armour smouldering, and pointed back the way he’d come.

“We’re hacked,” he said, matter-of-factly.

A long, dark shape broke through the clouds, casting a deep shadow over the area. It was a star cruiser – an impossibly long star cruiser with twin prows. Red, double-barrelled cannons rose from its forward section, while a tower and cockpit jutted from its centre. Long ramps extended from its rear, while Autobot… or Grounder… symbols could be seen on various surfaces. As it neared the surface of the planet it began to transform, contorting and twisting into a blue-and-red city. More guns and ramps unfurled from it, and tiny lights filled the windows of its three towers.

Blender strode over to the city – which dwarfed even him – and sat atop the ramps, using them as a throne. Around him, one hundred different weapons systems flickered into cold, clinical, exterminating life.

“My greatest creation,” he yelled at the Autobots. “My Fortress Maximus. It’ll be the death of you tiny, useless mechs!”

Nightbeat tensed, ready for the killing blow. It never came… because Omega Supreme hurtled from the sky and crash-tackled Blender off of his deadly throne.

\-----

Guilt.

The familiar sensation flooded every one of his neural pathways, provoking extreme reactions within his processor… and _within his fists_. Omega Supreme tore into Blender like a mech possessed, channelling every erg of guilt into savage, direct action.

He had stood on the sidelines for so long that his vision had clouded over. He, too, had been fooled by Nightbeat’s ruse. The shame he felt when the detective had told him the truth, privately, was Spark-rattling. He had spent cycles in the company of Grounders, never once tipping to the forces that drove them… the manipulations under which they had suffered.

Omega had dismissed all Grounders save Landfill as pathologically self-destructive. He had dismissed Thundercracker as “just another Decepticon”. He had dismissed Nightbeat as a hot-headed fool, when only half of that description was right. His assumptions and judgments had blinded him to the obvious truth… that the murder and their mission were inextricably linked.

_I seem to recall a field commander telling me, once upon a time, that ‘unyielding resolve has no conqueror’. I took it to Spark, that little ditty, and applied it in my own way – you know, refusing to give up when faced with dizzying odds, honing my determination to do the job right and well. The job of protecting mechs from death and destruction and senseless slaughter. From being murdered while trying to live their lives._

Omega knew what had happened to that field commander. He had spent his existence being the biggest mech around, and drawing strength from his size. Then he had met someone bigger than himself, and his world had collapsed. The field commander who had defended Iacon let himself get smaller and smaller with every cycle until he vanished into his own head… and ran away. All because there was a bigger mech, a scarier mech, staring down at him.

No more.

Every blow Omega struck was for redemption. For revenge. For Arcee and for Metroplex, and especially for poor Checkpoint. Every piece of metal tore from Blender was a piece of his Spark reclaimed. Every drop of oil spilled was a baptism – a coward’s funeral and a warrior’s rebirth. The Grounder was far, far larger than Omega Supreme but it no longer mattered. His foe was nothing but a miner, a common worker. He was the last line of defence, the final tactical option, the siege-breaker… unyielding resolve personified.

As he slammed his fists into Blender, again and again, he vowed he would never forget that. Fighting was never the only option – but it was still an option, one an Autobot had to be willing to embrace for the sake of his friends.

A hand gripped his, staying his assault. He looked into the gentle golden features of Landfill, then down into the ruined remains of Blender. The murderous mech was functional, but his bodywork was so crushed as to be immovable. A feeble whistling noise came from his wrecked face plate. Omega silenced it with a back-hand blow, then walked away. He would spare no more time, no more thought, on the defeated. Now, only the living concerned him.

Ahead, he saw Nightbeat sink to his knees, rest his head on the purple soil and begin to sob. The mystery had been solved… now, the detective could let himself mourn his friend.

\-----

When the Autobots took possession of Fortress Maximus, none of the Grounders argued. They seemed quite eager for the massive weapon to leave their world – for all traces of warfare and murder to be wiped from the purple plains of Gigalonia.

Likewise, no voice opposed when Nightbeat took Frenzy and Rumble into custody. There were cells inside Fortress Maximus and the detective put them to good use, jailing the diminutive “Flyers” alongside Wheeljack and Tidal Wave. Two more prisoners had been added to the population – Snowcat and Demolishor, who had been found nearby, hiding and nursing serious wounds.

The sole demand the natives made had to do with Blender. They were happy for Frenzy and Rumble to face Cybertronian justice, but they had plans for their would-be leader. “We have our ways,” one of them explained. “You probably wouldn’t like ‘em, so spare yourself the grief and just don’t ask.” Blender, bound in chain, grimaced at his peer’s words.

The Grounders all but asked the Autobots to keep Metroplex’s Planet Key. Firstly, it was useless to them all and, secondly, it brought back too many foul memories. Landfill formally presented the item to Omega Supreme, then stunned everyone by announcing he was leaving with the Autobots.

“There’s nothing for me here,” he told his stunned people. “Grounders and Flyers need to work together to forge a new Gigalonia – to find real and proper uses for our ore and our technology. It must be a future free from deceit and… well… I am just as deceitful as Blender.”

With that, the golden giant disassembled, his pieces transforming as they fell. Wedge, Hightower, Heavy Load and Grimlock faced their peers, revealed, for the first time. Silence gave way to snickers, then outright laughter, at the “tiny bots”. Wedge merely shook his head, saddened. “I wish I could say I was surprised,” he muttered to Nightbeat. “But on this world, size is always going to matter most. That’s why we combined in the first place.

“We’re no good to anyone here – with you, back on the home world, we can make a real difference. Maybe the four of us can even figure out a way to get the Planet Key working again.”

Arcee had recovered and was back on her feet. Checkpoint seemed to be making slow progress – a CR chamber, transferred from the Build Team’s labs into Fortress Maximus, would keep him stable for the return journey. Omega Supreme had assumed command, organising the departure with customary efficiency. This time, however, his desire to leave was not out of cowardice… instead, he was itching to get back to Cybertron and save the day.

It seemed like all the loose ends had been tied off. Nightbeat, however, knew that was never the case – especially for him. He’d solved two murders but still had questions.

He found Thundercracker at the top of Fortress Maximus’ main tower. The ex-Decepticon was staring through the green glass of the cockpit section, taking a last look at Gigalonia. “I’ve worn purple badges on my armour for almost as long as I can remember,” he said as Nightbeat walked in. “After the last few cycles here, I’m thinking of painting ‘em a new colour. Sick of the damn sight of purple.”

“There’s plenty of silver paint around here,” Nightbeat quipped. “I’m sure Blender would be happy to give you some.”

Thundercracker laughed.

“I have to ask you something,” Nightbeat said quietly. “Arcee told me what you said to Wheeljack – about what it means to be a Decepticon.”

“Thinking of joining up?”

“Not on your life, ‘con. Still, it got me thinking… your goals, your Decepticon code, doesn’t sound all that different from Autobot thinking. Freedom from oppression, exemption from manipulation, the right to live your life the way you see fit. Those are the values we fight for and, yet, you say you will never join us.

“I like to think I’m smart, but I don’t understand your thinking. Isn’t this just a political difference?”

For a moment, the jet was silent. Then he sighed deeply. “You’re smart, Nightbeat,” he said, “But you’ll never understand. Being a Decepticon isn’t about slaughtering others – it’s about _having the right_ to slaughter others, should you so chose.”

Nightbeat was horrified. Thundercracker saw the look on the detective’s face and continued.

“It’s also about having the right to refuse such actions. Basically, it comes down to doing as you feel, when you feel it, and not letting anyone get in the way of that most basic of personal freedom. You want, you do – that’s the Decepticon way. But you do it for your own reasons… not because some jumped-up aerial dreadnaught tells you to. Not because you’re a few diodes short of a circuit board, or have a grudge against the world. You do it for yourself.

“You lot – the group who became the Autobots – you _were_ the oppressors. You were the mechs and femmes who forced us to be peaceful, to live in harmony with all things, to share and care and all that garbage.

“For millions of years, you repressed us. Some things can’t be forgiven. Some things have to be avenged.”

“No matter your personal feelings?” Nightbeat demanded. “No matter the friendships you’ve formed along the way?”

A curious look passed over Thundercracker’s crimson features. Regret? Conflict? Nightbeat couldn’t be sure. It was there for but a second, and was then replaced by the jet’s customary sardonic grin.

“Guess we’ll find out when Megatron’s dead, won’t we?”

He winked and walked out of the cockpit, leaving Nightbeat alone with his confusion.

He was still shaking his head as he rode the elevator down to Fortress Maximus’ detention level. The area was an echoing cavern of noise and argument. Frenzy and Rumble were bickering with Snowcat and Demolishor, their bodies clanging as they clashed physically and verbally. Tidal Wave kept yelling for them to shut up, his emerald hands cradling his damaged head.

Only Wheeljack was silent. Isolated in a separate cell, the black-and-white sports car kept to the shadows. As he drew level with the bars, all Nightbeat could see was the ends of the Decepticon’s feet… and, as if it were backlit by its own power cell, his ruined Autobot symbol. A diagonal slash ran through the once-proud red logo, seemingly a visual message to all Wheeljack’s opponents.

“So, talk,” Wheeljack murmured. “Ask me your questions, detective, and I may be inclined to answer them. Maybe.”

“I investigated your defection, Wheeljack, and there seemed to be no reason for it,” Nightbeat said. “You were a new recruit with no friends and no combat experience. The first time anyone even noticed you was on the day of your first attack, when you wore that crossed-out Autobot symbol. For a while, we thought you were a poser, but a records check revealed the truth.”

“That’s not a question.”

Nightbeat bristled. “Well, _this_ is. I’ve had the Decepticon ideal explained to me, Wheeljack – I know the forces that drive the other side of this conflict. They horrify me, as they would any right-thinking Cybertronian. So my question is: what pulled you across to their side? Were you already a whack-job, or did that happen over time as you sold off more and more of your Spark?”

There was a blur of movement, too fast for the optic to see, and Wheeljack next to him. He pressed his face up against the bars and barked, like an Earth dog, causing Nightbeat to startle and jump back.

Wheeljack laughed in a low, stuttering voice, his face plate frozen in a rictus. His optics telescoped wider and wider as he spoke.

“The Decepticon ideal? It comes down to one word, Nightbeat… power. Having the power to rule over others, to wipe out those in your way, to make the lesser beings fear and despise you for your terrible beauty. Only fools like Thundercracker believe there is some sort of ideal, some political component to what we do. He fights for empty rhetoric and false promises – a lonely, tortured Spark forever questing for a nobility that _doesn’t exist_.

“Being a Decepticon isn’t a choice – it’s a genetic imperative. It’s in your oil… the dark part that bubbles up and makes you want to step on something small, just to hear the squishing noise. Ask Grimlock – your precious Dinobot commander knows better than anyone what it’s like to have to reign the beast within. We Decepticons simply don’t bother because we know what we are… we’re the strong ones, the truthful ones. We deceive others, not ourselves, and that is why we’re going to wipe… you… all… out.”

He snickered. “You may want to think about joining us, Nightbeat,” he said. “Back there on the beach, when you sent your partner away just because he was annoying you? Textbook Decepticon move, my friend – use the weak until they have no more to give, then use them as cannon fodder. And that moment when you wanted to kill me? That was the ‘Decepticon ideal’ in action, pure and clean. Terrible beauty. Real freedom.”

Nightbeat lashed out, trying to strike Wheeljack through the bars. The Decepticon backed away, laughing loudly and wildly. He stood in place and kept laughing, not even stopping when Nightbeat stormed out of the detention area.

Hours later, when he was several levels and miles of armour away from Wheeljack, Nightbeat was convinced he could still hear the Decepticon cackling.


	7. Chapter 7

For a change, all of Nightbeat’s processor was focused on one fact. The fact his cup was empty.

Arcee was still embracing him, her optics shuttered and her head on his shoulder. As gently as he could, he reached out with his other arm for the pitcher. In a flash, her hand was on his, slapping it away from the cool, black lubricant.

“A drink with a friend is nice,” she said, optics still closed, “but there is such a thing as having too much.”

Nightbeat pulled his hand back, sullen.

He’d reviewed the entire incident in his head, from beginning to end… even inter-cycled the reports logged by Arcee and Omega Supreme… and still the truth eluded him. Not the truth of the murder, or the truth of the killer or the Planet Keys… but the truth of Decepticons.

Thundercracker claimed it was political. Wheeljack insisted it was genetic – and the psychopath’s reasoning still rang in Nightbeat’s audio receptors. Every fibre of him wanted to scream “you’re wrong!” in the traitor’s face… deny to the universe he could ever be as callous or cruel as a Decepticon. Yet the evidence – his god, his reason for being – suggested otherwise. If he walked the grid of his own personality, he would likely find intolerance, resentment and rage… all hallmarks of Decepticon “genetics”.

And what of his irregular logic? His desire to be left alone, to be allowed to follow matters through in his own way? That fit with Thundercracker’s political views – his quest for a totally selfish existence. Nightbeat had turned his back on a friend, allowed him to walk into danger alone, because he was sick of being affected by another’s paranoia.

Then there were the Flyers to consider. Ignored, afraid of being small, they had manipulated events and forged black allegiances in a grab for power. Theirs was an evil borne out of self-defence, with noble ends and sinister means. Still, they were hardly “bad guys” when compared with Blender. He was the most cold-oiled of all the beings on Gigalonia, and he wore the Autobot symbol on his chest.

“Used to be a purple badge meant something… an enemy, the opposition, a big fat target,” he repeated, mostly to himself. He signalled to the bartender for a fresh cup of oil, but was ignored. “The only thing it’s symbol of now is how mess up this war has become… of how nothing makes sense.

“You’ve got Decepticons on worlds where there are no reasons for Decepticons to exist. You’ve got an Autobot who murders, single-handedly deceives an entire planet’s population and risks genocide just so he can get a power boost. A Decepticon who has sworn to kill us all once the war is over risks everything to save our lives. On top of all that, you have an Autobot who’s become both a Decepticon and a frelling nut case, and wants to blame it on genetics!”

“Not to mention,” Arcee said quietly, “An Autobot who became a Decepticon and yet we trusted, leaving our friend in a critical condition.”

“ _I_ trusted,” Nightbeat corrected savagely. “ _My_ friend. Credit where credit is due, in all things.”

“You’re talking about blame,” Arcee said. “Guilt. Omega let go of his – why can’t you let go of yours?”

He didn’t reply.

Arcee sighed. “Want the truth? As far as I’m concerned, you’ve over-thought this. Autobot or Decepticon, Wheeljack is _insane_. He has no deep truths to offer, just a head full of bad wiring – and, apparently, a claw in you. Forget him, Nightbeat – he’s a loser who poisons others to justify his own sad existence. Had he stayed an Autobot, we’d probably have jailed him for conduct unbecoming… or lined him up for a Grimlock-style court martial.”

She cradled her cup and drained it. “Blender and the Flyers are in a whole different category. What you keep forgetting is they’re _not_ Autobots and Decepticons.” She slammed the cup onto the table for emphasis. “Maybe the faction symbols are hard-wired into all Cybertronians, and it’s pure luck they’ve popped up around the cosmos. Who cares? We share a planet of origin but our lives, cultures and histories are alien to one another.

“As for Thundercracker… I think he’s the one who’s confused. I heard him talking to Wheeljack, saw the fury in his eyes when he talked about the Decepticon ideal. He’s more like an Autobot than he’ll ever realise – or be prepared to admit to himself. I have faith that, one day soon, he’ll realise that his cause is our cause, and only our tactics separate us.”

She leaned even closer and, unexpectedly, kissed him on the cheek. It was a completely human gesture, a token of affection alien to Cybertronian culture. For those reasons, Nightbeat appreciated it all the more.

“Let it go, Nightbeat,” she whispered into his audio receptor. “Checkpoint is still alive – barely, but alive. You know as well as I that where there’s life, there’s hope. You also know it’s no more your fault than it is anyone else’s.”

He grimaced. She kissed him again, rose from her stool and walked toward the door. As she climbed the steps, she flicked a 40 Shanix coin over her shoulder and into the bartender’s hands. At the top of the stairs, she turned back.

“Sure, you don’t believe that right now, but you’ll have to sooner or later,” she smiled. “All the evidence points to it.”

Then she was gone, and Nightbeat was alone with his drink again. He forced out a short, sharp breath, and began to multi-task.

Half of his processor compiled the “wins” column, the other the “losses”. They’d found the Planet Key, stopped the Decepticons, solved a murder, liberated a planet, recruited four new soldiers, rehabilitated Omega Supreme and claimed a powerful star cruiser for the Autobot cause… even if the brass wanted Fortress Maximus “parked” somewhere else. They’d also been lied to, betrayed, shot at, beaten up and generally treated like slag. Checkpoint was dying.

Statistically, it was a victory… perhaps even a resounding one. Morally, too – they’d brought the prisoners home instead of executing them on the spot. It was even a big step toward trusting Thundercracker who, as Arcee had said, was more an Autobot than anyone would say aloud. Deep in his Spark, though, he felt like a failure. If only he’d been smarter, or quicker on the uptake, or less arrogant… he could have saved them all so much pain.

Nightbeat looked again at his forearms, at the _kanji_ “tattoos” he’d picked up in Japan cycles ago. He’d never known what they meant – he’d picked them because instinct told him to. He’d also never sought to learn their meaning… until now.

Using his internal modem, Nightbeat dialled into the Underbase – Cybertron’s primary data repository – and accessed the section on “Earth languages”. From there, it was a simple matter of feeding his visual reception down the line and waiting for an answer.

The Underbase took less than a pico-second to match the reference. His tattoo, it turned out, was actually a nickname for a police vehicle – appropriate, given his alternate form. The characters, when translated to English, said simply “black and white”.

Black and white. Absolutes, without shades of grey. Two halves of the same whole, working in opposite directions at all times. Like his processor. Like himself and Checkpoint. Like his views on Autobots and Decepticons.

Unknowingly, he’d branded himself.

He rose from his stool and lurched into Macaddam’s waste disposal area, over near the ruined jukebox. There, he drained his sump, forcing every last drop of intoxicating lubricant from his body. Cleansed internally, he resolved his next stop would be a CR chamber and some much-needed repairs… after moving Fortress Maximus to a new location, of course.

Nightbeat paid the bartender and left the bar, stepping back on to the surface of Cybertron. The world was still ending, the impossible black hole hanging like a bloated carnivore in the sky above. Nothing had changed just because he’d gotten good and drunk… just as nothing had changed inside of him.

He was still confused.

He still didn’t have all of the answers.

He didn’t understand the Decepticons, didn’t know if they were products of genetics or politics of both.

Then again, he no longer cared about any of it.

There would be time enough to seek those answers, once Cybertron and the universe had been saved. There would be days and weeks for him to sit and talk… with the older Autobots, with Thundercracker, even with their prisoners… when this crisis had passed. If it didn’t pass, if they all died and existence fell to ruin, then his personal demons would scarcely matter anymore.

It was a morbidly refreshing thought, and it gave Nightbeat the closest feeling to comfort he’d experienced since he first set foot on the purple plains of Gigalonia. In the middle of a war, he reasoned, you took your comforts where you found them.


End file.
